Kate Hoffmann - The Pirate

"There are many diseases which we've found cures for- typhus, smallpox, measles, the plague. But there are others that still baffle medical science. I guess things haven't changed that much."

They sat in silence for a long while. Meredith was startled by the traces of agony that etched his frozen expression. Slowly, she reached out and wove her fingers through his. "Thank you for telling me," she said. "It helps me to understand."

He didn't reply, merely stared out at the harbor, his features frozen. Meredith's heart ached for him, for his dead wife and the baby son he'd never held. For she could see in the depths of his pale eyes that he blamed himself for their deaths. And she could see that the blame was eating away at him.

And in that instant, she knew it was not just his honor standing between them, but his guilt.

The late-afternoon sun beat down on Griffin's bare back as he scraped another layer of paint off the hull of the old shrimp boat. It felt good to labor again, to work so hard the sweat dripped from his forehead and his muscles ached.

He'd been working for nearly a week and he and Merrie had slipped into an easy routine, a routine in which they kept a careful but friendly distance from each other. Still, the attraction between them had not diminished, and though he only visited her bedroom while she slept, he had been hard-pressed to keep from touching her in all the ways he wanted to.

The thought of her body beneath his hands caused a flood of warmth to pool in his lap and he quickly turned back to work, scraping at the paint with renewed vigor.

Early Jackson was below deck, tinkering with the engine, leaving Griffin to his own thoughts. From the time Griffin was a child, he'd been fascinated by boats and ships. He and his father had spent hours together, carving model-ship hulls from wood before they commissioned the Betty . And at one time, Griffin had thought he might prefer the building of ships to the sailing of them.

In his year at William and Mary, he'd studied mathematics to better understand the design of a hull and the efficiency of a sail. Now, as he worked on refurbishing the shrimper, he found a certain satisfaction in bringing a battered old boat back to life.

Perhaps this would not be a bad way to make a living. Surely there were many boats like this one, boats that needed a tender hand and a loving eye. Griffin stood and stretched, examining the morning's work.

If the boat were his, instead of Early's, he would treat her with much more care. He would strip her to the bare wood and sand her until she was smooth as silk. Then he would lay on a perfect coat of white paint. And after every piece of brightwork was varnished and every winch spitshined, he would hand-carve a nameplate for each side of the bow. Griffin smiled to himself. And he'd call her the Merry Girl .

"Hey, sailor. How about some supper?"

Griffin shaded his eyes against the sun and found Merrie watching him from the side of the road, a teasing smile on her face. She was wearing a loose cotton dress in cornflower blue, which left her arms bare, and a pair of sandals that allowed her toes to peek out. He still hadn't gotten used to seeing Merrie's feet and ankles displayed in public, much less her knees, but that didn't prevent him from appreciating the view.

Bracing his shoulder on the boat's cradle, he grinned and waved.

She jogged up to the boat, swinging a basket at her side. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

"Ravenous," he said. He pulled up the cloth that covered the contents of the basket and peered inside. "Did you bring me a soda pop?"

She pulled out a can and flipped the top. "What are you going to do when you go back and you can't have soda pop with every meal?"

He wiped his hands on the ragged, paint-spattered blue jeans that Early had given him, then took a long swallow of the cold pop, nearly draining the can. "Maybe I will just have to stay," he said. "The prospect of life without soda pop is nearly too much to bear."

She laughed, taking his words more lightly than they were really meant. By the minute, the prospect of life without Merrie was becoming even more unthinkable. He looked forward to seeing her every day, to listening to her musical voice, to watching her face light up with a smile.

"Can you take some time to eat? We can have supper right here if you like."

He slipped into his shirt, then grabbed her hand. "I have a better idea. I am finished for the day. Come." Griffin snatched the basket from her hands and dragged her across the parking lot, then stopped beside a small motorcycle. "We will go for a ride."

Merrie stared at the motorcycle. "I don't know how to drive this thing."

"Ah, but I do. Early taught me a few days ago. He sends me down to the hardware store on this machine to fetch supplies. 'Tis quite… exhilarating."

"You can't drive this without a license," Merrie said.

Griffin frowned. "What is a license? Early did not tell me this."

"It's a permit that allows you to drive on the roads. Didn't you tell Early you don't have a driver's license?"

Griffin shrugged. "How could I tell him this if I didn't know I needed one?" He climbed onto the bike and pushed it back off its stand. "Get on. We'll go for a ride now."

"I don't think so," Merrie said.

"Come," he said, grabbing her hand. "We'll have fun. And I will not drive fast."

With a reluctant smile, Merrie climbed onto the back of the bike. Griffin wedged the basket between them, then kicked the starter as Early had taught him. Moments later, they were weaving down the narrow road that circled the harbor. When they reached the highway, Griffin turned and headed out of town.

As he promised, he didn't drive fast, but Merrie still clutched his waist with both hands. "I can't believe I'm doing this!" she shouted.

He laughed, then twisted the throttle, increasing the bike's speed. She screamed and grabbed him more tightly as they sped down the highway. Once they left the boundaries of the village, all signs of civilization disappeared, save for the long strip of paved road in front of them.

Most of the island was a national seashore, he had been told, though he wasn't sure exactly what that meant. What he did know was there were no houses or people beyond the town. The island looked much as it had when he'd first sailed past it nearly three centuries ago-sweeping sand dunes, pristine beaches and tall sea grass waving in the breeze.

Griffin turned off the main road and followed a sandy path, then stopped the motorcycle. Merrie slipped off the back and ran her fingers through her windblown hair still clutching the basket with one white-knuckled hand. He climbed off the bike and stood beside her. "'Tis like riding a very fast horse," he said.

"I've never ridden a horse, so I wouldn't know," Merrie replied.

"Trust me, this is much better. Come, we will have a picnic on the beach. I want to relax. I have worked hard today."

Hand in hand, they climbed up one side of a dune and slid down the other. In front of them, the deserted white sand beach stretched long and wide. Waves broke against the shore, and above the brilliant blue water, seabirds dipped and swayed on the breeze.

Griffin grabbed the small tablecloth from the basket and spread it out on the sand, then pulled Merrie down beside him. As she unpacked the basket, he watched her, enjoying the sight of her bright eyes and rosy cheeks and quick smile.

Over the past week, they had spent little time together. Griffin had worked from sunrise to sunset, glad for a reason to put some distance between himself and Merrie. It had become much more difficult of late to see her and ignore the deep stirring of desire she provoked in him.

Most nights, he fell asleep on the couch after dinner. Hours later, in the middle of the night, as he paced the floors of the cottage, he would sneak into her bedroom and watch her sleep, always certain to leave before dawn without waking her. If she knew he was there, she didn't speak of it in the light of day. In fact, she seemed to prefer this space between them, as if it made living together, and the prospect of his leaving, much easier.