The waves still crashed against the shore, encroaching on the lawn with every surge. But the rain, no longer blown into stinging shards, now seemed almost as soothing as a springtime shower.

She held up the lantern and stared out into the darkness. A flash of white caught her eye and Meredith squinted to see what it was. An odd piece of flotsam, half-black, half-white, lay on the lawn, just beyond the reach of the water. Slowly, she walked across the surf-saturated grass, keeping her eyes on the strange shape. It moved once, but she was certain it had only been a play of light or the breeze, even though the air was deadly calm.

Common sense told her to return to the house and assess the damage in the light of day, but she found herself drawn to the water's edge. Only when she stood directly over the form did she realize she was looking at a man.

"Oh, Lord!" she murmured. Dropping onto one knee, Meredith placed the lantern near his head and gently turned him from his side to his back. He moaned softly but didn't regain consciousness. His long wet hair was plastered across his face and she pushed it away. A thick black beard obscured his features, but there was something about him that seemed familiar. So familiar, and yet entirely nameless. Even in the dim light, she was certain she didn't know this man.

He was wearing a torn white shirt, an odd vest, and, of all things, breeches. A pair of black leather boots covered his feet and legs to the knee. And around his waist was fixed a scabbard which held no weapon.

Meredith groaned. "I should have known. You're one of Tank Muldoon's boys."

Trevor Muldoon, known on the island as "Tank," ran a waterfront tourist trap, a restaurant and bar called the Pirate's Cove. All of his waiters dressed as pirates, adding to the restaurant's ambience and popularity. But most of the waiters were rowdy college kids who'd left the island right after Labor Day.