And then came Horace-twist of fate number three. A hurricane hadn't hit the island for more than twelve years. But then again, hurricanes usually hit the Outer Banks in nine-year cycles, so she really couldn't count Horace as fate, and he certainly couldn't be considered good fortune.

Now, as she stared down at the picture of the pirate, an overwhelming sense of apprehension assailed her, as if she was suddenly powerless against this greater force. Something was about to happen, she could feel it in the air, and it frightened her.

"Stop it!" Meredith scolded.

"Stop it!" Ben mimicked.

"This storm's got me so tense I'm beginning to imagine things."

She purposefully returned her attention to the book, running her finger over the illustration, taking in each detail. The pirate had long dark hair that framed aristocratic features. He wore knee breeches, a flowing white linen shirt and a dark waistcoat. Two leather straps crisscrossed his chest with small pistols tucked in loops along them. In his right hand was a short, curved cutlass, and tucked into his belt, a dagger.

Meredith was surprised by the accuracy of the drawing, considering Hollywood's imprint on the image of a pirate-eye patch and peg leg, tricorn and gold earring, and the requisite bird on the shoulder. Her gaze drifted back to his face. All right, so maybe the drawing wasn't entirely accurate. This pirate looked more like one of those male models that appeared in designer-underwear ads than a real buccaneer from the bounding main.

She focused on the illustration, trying to block out the weather that raged around the cottage, allowing the image to drift off the page and into her mind. Since her girlhood, she'd been fascinated by the legends of pirates, the ruthless men who plied the waters of the Outer Banks, preying on ships with merciless abandon. It was with the stories of pirates that her love of history took root.