“Rationally,” Quill chimed in. He was grinning like a devil, lying on the bed looking wicked, and delicious, and male…. Gabby almost sobbed with a combination of bewilderment and longing.

“It is illogical to continue. You won’t be able to travel for days. What about your work in London?”

Quill stood up and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He tossed it to the floor next to her gown.

“I don’t want to!” she said desperately, watching with fascination as Quill drew his linen shirt over his head. His body was lean and muscled, as different from her own as could be imagined. Heat pulsed in her veins.

He was still grinning, an audaciously wicked smirk.

“It’s not dark. We should be under the covers, in the dark. You shouldn’t bare yourself like this—where is your nightshirt?” Her voice rose. “And you’re looking at me again!”

“You’re looking at me too,” Quill said mildly. He was pulling off his boots now.

Gabby’s vision blurred with tears. She winked them away and crossed her arms rigidly over her breasts.

“Why so coy, love?”

A sob escaped from Gabby’s throat. “I don’t want—this,” she cried.

“Why not?” To her relief, the seductive tone was gone from Quill’s voice.

But how could she answer him? She stumbled into speech. “What we’re doing is shameful. It should be done in the dark, under the covers. You can touch me if you wish, because you are my husband and I can’t say nay, but you can’t look at me like that. You can’t make me do naked things—in the light!”

Quill sighed. Then he backed up and sat on the edge of the bed. “Come here, sweetheart.” He held out his arms.

Gabby took one look at his chest and shook her head. “I’m almost certain that your headaches are caused by misconduct. Your behavior is not Christian.” Her voice was strained and earnest.

“Christian?” He bent forward and grabbed one of Gabby’s wrists, pulling her slowly toward him. She perched reluctantly on his knees, back straight so that she didn’t touch his naked chest. It was mortifying, the way her fingers yearned to caress him.

“We’re behaving like heathens,” she whispered miserably, adding the “we” for his benefit. Frankly, he was the heathen. “Back home, in India…my father—” She stopped.

“What would he say?”

“A couple was seen making love by the river.” Gabby’s voice was quite sunk with mortification. “He pointed them out in church and made them stand up and said that God would strike them down.”

“And did God strike them down?” Even Gabby couldn’t miss the potent anger in Quill’s voice.

She shivered. “No. But they had to leave the village.”

“Your father is—” He broke off. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her soft hair. “Do you like your father, Gabby?”