Chapter 17

“Sir,” Leo said again, more emphasis, which was not in the script. “The supply list? For the surgeon’s chest?”

Jason swung that way, and growled, “I don’t have the damned supply list, because he hasn’t sent it over—”

“Yes, that would be why I’m here,” Leo said dryly. “He has. And it won’t fit in that space allowance, either.”

Jason muttered a curse having to do with Admiralty-appointed surgeons, their arrogance, and an ancestry involving goats. “Will—Easterly—”

No first names. No nicknames. Too much private connection laid bare.

“I’ll go—disembark?—well before you need me to,” Colby promised. “But if you’d not mind, I’d like to stay for a bit. Out of the way, of course.”

He could see Jason—Stephen—weighing that decision. The bustle and scurry of last-minute preparations. The presence of a titled viscount among the crew. The comprehension of the need for flight, for breaking free, for a few stolen hours.

“I won’t have much time to spare for you,” Jason said.