Pirate's Promise (Sentinels of Savannah #5) - Lisa Kessler Page 0,7

and gunpowder that permeated her tiny cabin like a constant reminder that she was working with a band of pirates, onboard a literal pirate ship.

“I should’ve looked before I threw my door open.” She pushed her door until the latch engaged. “I’m not used to such tight quarters.”

He offered his hand. “I don’t think we’ve really met. I’m Caleb Graves.”

She shook his hand. “The navigator, right? I’m Agent Henderson.”

“Have you ever sailed before?” He released her hand.

“No. This is my first time.” She noticed the compass and sextant in his hand and frowned. “Don’t you have GPS on this ship?”

“Aye.” He followed her gaze and lifted his other hand. “But I still like to cross-check all the computer calculations by hand. I guess you could say I’m old-school.”

She chuckled, knowing from her records he was so much older than he looked. “Any chance you found a way to get us to Glasgow a day or two sooner?”

He shook his head. “Sadly, time travel is not a proven science.”

She thought he was teasing her at first, but he didn’t laugh, and he was already making his way back to the map room. Navigating the crew would be easier once she got to know their personalities beyond the write-up in her Department 13 files.

As she jogged up the stairs to the upper deck, a sleeping Savannah came into view.

A thin veil of fog blanketed River Street, making gauzy halos around the gas-lamp streetlights along the empty sidewalks. It had a dreamlike quality, like maybe she wasn’t really about to sail across the Atlantic with an immortal pirate crew.

As a little girl, she’d been more eager for pretend swordplay than the dolls some of her friends enjoyed. Her eight-year-old self would’ve been over the moon about this trip. Her thirty-something self recognized this was going to be a long six days before they docked in Glasgow, Scotland.

She walked to the bow and leaned on the railing, facing east, trying not to notice the crew bustling around the deck to ready the ship for sailing. No one had warned her how stunning the sky would be as they sailed into the horizon, the sunrise sparkling across the Atlantic.

It had still been dark when she had woken up, eager to get this mission underway and over. The sooner they had that sword, the sooner she could get back to Department 13.

“The view just before sunrise never gets old.”

She turned toward the voice on her right and stiffened.

This close, it was impossible to miss the flecks of green in Greyson’s determined hazel eyes. He had a strong jaw, a straight nose, and his skin was tanned from lifetimes in the sun. He kept his long brown hair in rows of thin braids down his back. His gaze wandered over her face, reminding her she’d been staring.

She looked at River Street again. “According to Google, this sea voyage will take five or six days, so we’ll have time to set up some target practice. I need to know your skill levels with different weapons and fighting styles before we go undercover.”

He rested his chiseled forearms on the railing and smirked. “I’m more than adequate under the covers, lass.”

“No.” Aura pointed at him. “No double entendre bullshit.” She caught her hair behind her ear, narrowing her eyes. “I’m not your ‘lass,’ or any other pirate endearment, either. Until we’re undercover in Glasgow, you can call me Agent Henderson.”

He straightened up, his smile fading away. Sadly, his pissed-off drop-dead glare was even sexier than his cocky grin. Damn it.

“Forgive me for trying to remove the stick from your arse, Agent Henderson.” He shook his head and walked away, toward the mainmast, as he called out, “And I’m happy to school ye in target practice anytime.”

She raised a brow with a confident chuckle. There was no way in hell that pirate was a better shot than her.

He stopped at the mast, talking to Caleb. The navigator must’ve come up from the lower deck while she’d been watching the fog. From this distance, it was safer to study Greyson.

The way he stood, with his knees bent just enough to keep him steady as the boat rode the swells out to sea, spoke to the lifetimes he’d spent sailing. His thumb slid over the handle of the revolver holstered at his hip. Casual reassurance that you were armed and ready.

Most of the Sea Dog crew had evolved with the rest of Savannah. Their clothes, hair, and even accents blended in most of