Rather than finding a spot of shade, Mercy walked to the starboard rail into the sunlight. She peered over the side as the ship sliced through the water. Though the Tynemouth might have once been an elegant ship with her sails flying proudly in the wind, she was now patched in many areas, her throbbing engines belching black coal smoke that trailed in her wake.

Toward the stern, two sailors were hauling up buckets of seawater, likely at the request of passengers who wished to attempt to launder their vomit-splattered clothing and bedding and then hang the linens to dry. Little did they realize that without fresh water for rinsing, their garments would become caked with salt and would likely give them saltwater boils. Most would have to give up on washing soon enough.

Other than the sailors drawing water, the deck was deserted. Joseph leaned against the rail next to Mercy and watched as the sun turned the spray of water droplets into diamonds.

“The sea can be a beauty when she wants to be, can she not?” Joseph asked.

“Aye, she can.” Mercy turned her attention to the horizon, an endless blue where the sky met the sea. “She’s rather like an infant, isn’t she? One day calm as can be, and the next throwing a tantrum.”

“Sometimes she changes her mood by the hour.”

The slight wind teased Mercy’s hair, pulling fair tendrils across her flushed cheeks. “I like her best when she’s quiet and content.”

“As do I.” His fingers twitched with the need to capture her flyaway strands, to test for himself their silkiness.

She inhaled deeply, as if the sea air contained the life-giving breath of God. Joseph supposed that compared to the thick air that choked London, the sunshine and the pure ocean air were exactly what her body needed. After all, she’d lost some of the pallor and gauntness from the first time he’d seen her at the dispensary. And now her face gave off a healthy glow.

“So, Miss Wilkins.” He shifted his hands behind his back and clasped them together. “Will you put me out of my misery and inform me of my misdeed? Then I may beg your forgiveness and all shall be well.”

She ducked her head.

He half expected her to peek at him coyly and tell him nothing was wrong, that there wasn’t anything to forgive since he was the perfect gentleman as always. He was accustomed to such flattery. Even those who disagreed with his decision to become a physician followed the unspoken rule of his class—to dress criticism in elegant, flowery attire.

He was unprepared when Mercy turned to face him directly, her expression earnest and devoid of any guile. “I’ll not be any man’s mistress.”

The words were so unexpected and blunt, he recoiled.