Pirate's Persuasion (Sentinels of Savannah)

by Lisa Kessler

  “Drake?” Her smile called to him like a siren.

  He turned all the way around on the stool. “What are you doing here?”

  She chuckled with a shrug of her creamy shoulders. “Hopefully eating?”

  He smacked his forehead, wishing like hell he was better at small talk. Glancing past her, the knot in his gut eased. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.” Her gaze swept up and down the bar. “You?”

  “Aye.” He gestured to the stool next to him. “You’re welcome to join me.”

  One-Eyed Bob shooed them with his gnarled hands. “That empty booth over there is calling your names. I’ll bring a fresh plate of shrimp and hush puppies.”

  Drake shot him a look, but Bob didn’t seem to notice as he spun on his heel, heading for the kitchen. The elderly pirate was developing a habit of playing matchmaker. Already, three of his crewmates had found women worthy of joining their crew. Hell, Colton just got married.

  “I’m piss-poor company.” Drake glanced at the booth. “But there’s shrimp and hush puppies in it for us, so…”

  “You make it sound promising.” She raised a teasing brow. “But I wouldn’t want to interrupt a brooding session—”

  “Brooding?” Laughter burst from his lips, surprising him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. “Do you always call it as you see it?”

  “Well, you’re not the first brooder I’ve ever met.” Her lopsided smile spoke of secrets he ached to discover. “You’d think I would learn.”

  An unfamiliar flame sparked in his soul at her declaration. The thought of another man hurting her…it pissed him off. Which made no sense. Neither did stepping in front of an armed man, but he’d done that for her, too.

  What was it about this woman?

  At the booth, he took a seat across from her and glanced at the empty doorway to the kitchen. Satisfied they were alone, he cleared his throat and found…nothing to say. “No cape tonight?”

  Inwardly, he cursed himself for such a sad excuse at conversation with her, but he couldn’t reel the words back now.

  “Nope.” She lifted her gaze to meet his eyes. “No tool belt tonight?”

  “No.” He chuckled, amazed again at how deftly she crept underneath the suffocating blanket of guilt and spread her light. She was magic. “If Bob needs something fixed, he’ll have to handle it his own damned self.”

  She grinned, her laughter warming him all over. “After last night’s…attack, or whatever it was, I’m glad to see you’re taking some time off.” She sobered. “How are you feeling?”

  “Shitty, if you want an honest answer.” His admission shocked him.

  “Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Did you have trouble sleeping?”

  “You could say that.” He frowned. Had Colton been right? Did Heather bring on the banshee’s call? “Would you know anything about that?”

  She shrugged. “Lucky guess considering you still haven’t told me what happened to you last night.”

  “I’ve got it under control.” His ability to lie was almost as good as his damned small talk. This was why he enjoyed being the ship’s carpenter. Conversation and negotiation weren’t part of his job description.

  “I gave you my card last night for a reason. If something paranormal is going on, it’s sort of my specialty.”

  He frowned deeper, his brows pinching together. “Did you know I was going to have those dreams? Did you send them?”

  “No.” Her eyes widened before she could bury her reaction. “I’m a medium. I bring messages from the other side. Magic and spells aren’t my thing. I don’t send dreams—or nightmares.”

  One-Eyed Bob interrupted their exchange with a steaming platter of fried shrimp and hush puppies. He set an iced tea in front of Heather, with a sprig of mint sitting on top instead of a lemon.

  He winked his good eye at Heather. “Just the way you like it.”

  Gods, her smile lit up the room. “Thanks, Bob.”

  The old salt went back to the kitchen, and Heather focused on Drake again. “Is there a story to go with the scar on your forehead?”

  Her abrupt change in subject surprised him. He reached up to run his fingers along the smooth skin over his right eye. “Aye.” Careful to avoid any mention of a time frame, he said, “I noticed a loose cleat on the Sea Dog, but we were already underway. I thought I could reinforce it, but the sail pulled with a gust of wind and the damned thing snapped. I woke up a few hours later in the bunk.”

  He put a hush puppy in his mouth before he shared more than he should.

  “Wow.” She took a sip of her tea, her gaze wandering over his face. “You’re lucky it wasn’t tying down the mainsail mast or you could’ve been killed.”

  He swallowed the salty fried bread. “Do you sail?”

  “Not yet.” She picked up a shrimp. “But I play a lot of Skull & Crossbones online during the day since”—she lifted her pale arm, displaying her lack of pigment like a badge of honor—“the sun isn’t my friend.” She ate the shrimp. “I had a character get hit by a cleat during a storm. It killed him.”

  Skull and crossbones online? Her words were English, but he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. “You have a character?”

  “Yeah. Skull & Crossbones is an online multiplayer game for your PC.”

  That didn’t clear up a damned thing. He didn’t trust technology. If he couldn’t figure out how something worked and how to fix it, he didn’t keep it around. “I don’t even own a computer. I’m lucky I can work my cell phone.”

  “I’ll have to teach you sometime. It takes place on the Indian Ocean during the golden age of piracy. If you like sailing that pirate ship docked on River Street, you’ll love playing virtual pirates.”

  He doubted that, but he was enjoying letting her drive the conversation, so he nodded. “Maybe.”

  She groaned with delight as she ate her first hush puppy, and the sound had blood rushing to his groin. “Oh, they’re still warm.” She finished it off and smiled. “So I’m guessing your story about the scar didn’t end with an emergency room and a plastic surgeon.”

  “No.” A perk of drinking from the Grail meant he’d never been inside a hospital. “We didn’t have a doctor on board, so Greyson stitched me up.”

  “Ouch.” She cringed. “He’s one of the guys who sails with you?”

  “Aye.” He took a swallow of his beer. “He’s our master gunner. Part of the Sea Dog crew.”

  “You need a gunner on a tourist ship?”

  “Every pirate ship needs a man to maintain the cannons and munitions.” Hearing her refer to the replica of the Sea Dog as a tourist ship was starting to get under his skin. But he couldn’t correct her.

  This was why he didn’t date. He couldn’t tell her he’d been on the original Sea Dog or that he sank with the ship in 1795. He’d already stayed at this table too long. “I better get going.”

  “You can’t.” She pointed to the platter. “You have to help me eat this.” The playful spark in her bright eyes tempted him to stay. “Please?”

  Fuck, she was entrancing him. She’d told him earlier she didn’t deal in magic, but every second he sat across from her, he found himself increasingly under her spell.

  Drake settled back into the booth and snagged a shrimp, biting back a smile. “Ye drive a hard bargain, lass.”

  Chapter Five

  Hearing Drake mimic a pirate brogue sparked a fire low in her belly and piqued her curiosity. There was a sense of humor hiding inside this guy. She just needed to find it. “Did you always want to be a pirate? Is that how you ended up working on the Sea Dog?”

  He chuckled, focusing on the shrimp in his hand. “Not exactly.” He met her eyes. “I’ve always been a builder. Creating something with my own hands…” He turned his over, staring at the calluses and scars. “No
thing else has ever given me a purpose. While some would burn wood for the fire, I could see the potential of what it could be. And with each project I finished came the hunger to build more.”

  The passion in his eyes when he talked about carpentry made her want to watch him in action. He shifted in his seat and rolled his shoulders back. She recognized the awkward silence that often happened during her mediumship sessions. He’d shared more than he intended.

  “When my older sister got sick, we needed money, and the Sea Dog needed a carpenter to patch a hole. The rest is history.” He ate the shrimp, watching her for a moment, but something about the way he looked at her didn’t make her feel self-conscious. His gaze seemed more like a caress, like he enjoyed the view. He cleared his throat. “What about you? Have you always heard the dead speak?”

  She smiled and sipped her tea. “As long as I can remember.” She set the glass back on the table. “My grandmother had the gift, too. She encouraged me to develop my skills and taught me not to be afraid. And when I was ready, she gave me this.” She held up her right hand, displaying her grandmother’s moonstone ring. “It was her mother’s, and when she gave it to me, I knew I was ready. I’ve been delivering messages for the dead ever since.”

  “Being in the Bonaventure Cemetery that night must’ve been…busy for you?”

  “Definitely.” She nodded with a chuckle. “I avoid cemeteries when I can. According to some of the spirits, I apparently shine on the other side like a beacon, alerting them that I can hear them. Most spirits are polite, but there are some that are so desperate to get a message to a loved one that they can be relentless.”

  He sobered, a crease forming on his brow. “Did Agent Bale force you to go with him that night?”

  She shook her head. “I consult for him sometimes. It was my idea to follow him to the cemetery. I knew his loyalties were conflicted, and I worried he might do something he could never take back.”

  He nodded slowly. “We had the same worries about our boatswain, John.”

  “Is the woman he saved from the underground crypt—?”

  “She’s fine.” He interrupted. “You were there, so you know about the Grail, Department 13, and Pandora’s Box, right?”

  She raised a brow. “We’re cutting right to the chase.”

  “No sense pretending if we don’t have to, right?”

  “True, I guess.” She shrugged a shoulder. “All right. I do know the Holy Grail and Pandora’s Box are real. And I also work as a subcontractor for Department 13 when David needs intel from a soul no longer living. Can’t say I know very much about Department 13, since he keeps me on a strictly need-to-know basis. What about you? What’s your connection to Agent Bale and the relics?”

  There was that look again. The same one she’d seen when she told him about the little ghost boy who called Drake Cole his uncle.

  He was about to lie to her again.

  “John’s lady stole the box and found herself in trouble from all sides. We were there for our crewmate. That’s all.”

  What was he hiding? Frustration coiled in her belly like a snake ready to strike. She should get up and leave. She promised herself no more men with secrets, yet here she was. Again.

  She admitted she worked for a government agent at super-secret Department 13. She’d never shared that with anyone else. Apparently the trust wasn’t mutual.

  David’s words of warning echoed through her mind. Maybe she should listen.

  “Look, I laid my cards on the table.” She kept her gaze locked on his. “Why aren’t you?” His silence stung. She clucked her tongue when he didn’t answer. “Agent Bale advised me to keep my distance from you and your friends. Maybe he was right.”

  Drake chuffed, breaking eye contact. “Maybe so.”

  “Seriously?” She wanted to grab his broad shoulders and shake him. “I thought we weren’t going to dance around the truth. Did something change?”

  “Some secrets aren’t mine to share. Agent Bale was right to warn you.”

  “Whatever.” Heather shoved the tray of food toward him and got out of the booth. “When someone shows you who they are, you should believe them, right?” She passed by a surprised Bob on her way out and handed him a twenty dollar bill. “Thanks, Bob. See you soon.”

  She pushed through the glass front door without ever looking back.

  …

  Drake watched her go, mentally kicking himself, but he didn’t chase her down. It was pretty clear she knew the relics were real, but she didn’t know Drake and his crewmates had taken a drink from the cup. He couldn’t admit his own immortality without exposing his entire crew.

  Bob stopped at his table and let out a little whistle. “Ye charmed that lass right out the door in record time, mate.”

  “Fuck off, Bob.” Drake glared up at his well-meaning friend. “You never should have told her where to find me in the first place.”

  Bob sobered, shaking his head. “I’ve known that woman since she used to sit on the back steps of my kitchen and cry because the kids at school teased her. She’s got a lion’s heart, and when she told me you were in danger, you’re damned right I told her where to find you.” He nudged Drake’s shoulder. “Yer crew cares about you, even if you don’t.” He glanced over at the door. “And if you let a precious soul like that one slip through yer fingers, then you deserve whatever torment you’re putting yourself through.”

  Drake laid some cash on the table and got up, staring down at Bob. “You’re right, I do deserve it.”

  He left the one-eyed pirate behind, grinding his teeth as he ventured out into the darkness. Heather wasn’t lingering in the tiny parking lot. Not that he expected her to be there, but apparently part of him had hoped. Stupid. What would he say? He barely knew her. What if he explained his true age and she told others? He and his crew had been able to remain in Savannah because they were careful to keep their immortality hidden from the world. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he also didn’t want to lose the life his crew had built.

  Somehow, she’d known he was lying, or at best withholding the truth. It didn’t matter. As much as she intrigued him, and even managed to make him laugh, it didn’t change the fact that a banshee wailed in his ears, and his long dead nephew was apparently back from his watery grave to torment him.

  He wasn’t sure how the two were connected yet, but if he cared anything for Heather, he needed to walk away now. A Banshee’s cry meant death would be coming, and he couldn’t die. The last thing he wanted was Heather’s blood on his hands, too.

  Drake pulled up to his house and shut off the headlights. He’d grab his tools from the back of his truck in the morning. His place sat at the end of a bluff in the outskirts of Brunswick, Georgia. He had plenty of privacy and no real threat of robbery. He walked past his humble private dock and into his elevated home. Being on the flood plain, many of the houses were built on pilings, piers, and stilts so the rising water during hurricane season flooded the garage and not the main house.

  He climbed the stairs and went directly into the master bath, stripping off his clothes and stepping into the hot shower. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, and his chest still ached, tight with regret. Not going after her had taken more restraint than he’d anticipated, her stinging words still echoed in his mind.

  When someone shows you who they are, you should believe them.

  Fuck, even he didn’t know who he was anymore.

  He’d thought he wasn’t the kind of man to drive a woman away, one whose only sin had been to try to protect him.

  Until that moment, he’d enjoyed himself, which was rare these days. She made him forget his past and his future. With her, he’d been present, in the moment. Talking freely with Heather had felt natural, and yet far from normal for him.

  With a hand on either side of the showerhead, he leaned forward, closing his eyes as the hot water po
ured over his head and down his back. The heat loosened the knots in his shoulders, enticing him to relax, but gradually, shadows crept in.

  The splash of the water filling the tub became a darker sound, centuries old.

  “We’ve hit the rocks!” Keegan shouted over the storm. “Drop the sails!”

  “NO!” Captain Flynn bellowed through the darkness. “We can make it to port. Stay your course for Savannah!” He turned his steely eyes onto Drake. “Patch that hole! Keep us afloat.”

  Drake grabbed an oil lantern and raced belowdecks, but as he descended the third set of stairs, the Atlantic greeted him, crawling up the steps like a hungry plague. Fuck.

  Then a bolt of revelation lit through his bloodstream. He pushed his legs faster through the hip-deep water, calling to his nephew. “Thomas!”

  He’d smuggled the eleven-year-old boy aboard when they left England. His sister had pleaded with him, coughing, her lungs surrendering to the consumption festering in her chest. Her time left on earth would be short. She’d urged Drake to take Thomas to the New World. She didn’t want to leave her son an orphan, alone and penniless on the streets of London.

  He could deny his sister nothing. If he could’ve welcomed the disease into his body to spare her, he would have. Instead, he’d find a way to give her this.

  The day the Sea Dog prepared to set sail, Drake smuggled the lanky boy aboard in his duffel bag, instructed him to stay in the workshop below the decks and remain hidden until Drake could get him off the ship in the New World. The boy was obedient and never complained of hunger or thirst, although he must’ve experienced both. Drake brought him rations saved from his own portion, but it wasn’t enough for a growing child.

  And now the boat was taking on water, and Drake’s secret stowaway wouldn’t be secret much longer. But the boy hadn’t come forward at his calls. Adrenaline laced Drake’s bloodstream as he searched and started yelling over the roar of the storm. When he finally located his nephew, Thomas was at the edge of the battered hull, a hammer still gripped in his small hand.