He’d send her back, he told himself as he entered his cabin and stomped about gathering his supplies, growing angrier at himself by the second.

Hearing a knock on his door, he took a deep breath, braced himself for what he must do, and swung open the door.

The rain had begun in earnest now and was pelting Mercy, so that she hung her head to avoid the sting of it against her face. The waves were splashing higher, and a sudden spray over the rail threatened to soak her.

Without a word of greeting, he dragged her out of the deluge into his cabin and shut the door.

Her breath came in gasps, and she leaned against the door as if needing it to brace herself up.

The interior of his cabin was dismal and dark, but not so much that he couldn’t see the swell of her chest rising and falling in rapid succession or the tautness of her bare throat or the raindrops on her lips.

Against his will, his body reacted to her nearness, his muscles tightening, making him chastise himself all over again for involving her in this medical emergency. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to entertain the possibility of utilizing her help again but should have kept in place the barrier between them.

She gave a slight tremble, and only then did he realize she wore no cloak or shawl for protection against the rain or the chill.

“Where is your cloak?” His irritation at himself made his voice sharper than he’d intended.

When her lashes swept up to reveal her large eyes, he wasn’t able to see the blue-green in them. What he saw instead was her confusion in the slant of her brows.

“Sir?”

“Your cloak?”

“I don’t have one. Never did.”

Never had a cloak? He spun away from her, suddenly livid. At himself, at the world, at the unfairness of her life. He was overwhelmed by the realization of everything she’d had to live without, things any human being ought to possess. Not only should she own a proper cloak, but she ought to have lovely gowns and sturdy shoes and warm stockings and pretty hats and silky gloves . . .

He strode to his trunk, threw open the lid, and dug through it until he found one of his oiled capes. He returned to her, thrust it into her arms, then stalked back to the bag he’d been packing before she arrived. “Put it on.”

She hesitated before slowly donning it. “You’re angry with me, sir?”

His hands froze in midair, and his shoulders slumped as the anger drained from his body, leaving defeat in its wake. “No. I’m not cross with you, Mercy. I’m cross with myself.”