He had to get into another room. He couldn’t let her see him like this. Stifling a groan, Quill reached out an arm, felt blindly for the bell cord, and pulled it. When the door opened, he barked, “Help me out of here,” without opening his eyes.

Five minutes later, he was resting as comfortably as possible, having made it halfway into his own chamber before losing the supper that he and Gabby had shared late the previous night.

He lay still as a board, a wet cloth over his eyes, enduring boiling nausea and a pounding brow. Bitterness crashed over him, leaving an acid taste in his mouth that coupled with the sour persistence of vomit. He wanted—needed—to be back in that bed next to Gabby.

He would have kissed her awake and taught her the sleepy pleasures of morning intimacy. He’d have helped her with her morning ablutions, washed each lush curve himself. Unless they started practicing celibacy, Quill thought, he would never be able to see Gabby wake in the morning. It was hard to take. Unfair. But grinding his teeth made hot agony surge to his temples. With the skill of long practice, he forced himself to relax and lie still. After unpleasant experimentation, he had found that indulging in any form of movement prompted a migraine to linger for a week.

With nothing to do but weather the attack, he quickly lost track of time. He moved only to lean over the side of the bed and spew into a basin. Every hour or so Willis entered the room and changed his head cloth.

So he had no idea when it was that Gabby tiptoed into the room. The moment he realized who had entered, his body stiffened. Willis had no right to allow Quill’s wife in the room. He refused to vomit in her presence.

It was no use. That instinctive stiffening led to a sickening lurch in his innards, and without even speaking to his wife, Quill leaned over the side of the bed and hoped to God that he wasn’t splashing bile on her gown. He didn’t open his eyes. There was no need to see the disgusted revulsion on her face. He could imagine it with no difficulty.

Quill lay back, silently cursing himself. What had he been thinking when he married? Bitter experience had hewed knowledge of his inadequacies. What type of knave cursed his wife with a lame excuse for a man? Only a reprobate would take a woman to wife because he lusted after her, would take her to wife with no thought for her happiness or future.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he managed to say in a harsh whisper.

“I came to see you.” Gabby sounded unmoved by his hostile greeting. A chair close to the bed scraped the wooden floor, and a corresponding stab of pain lit up the inside of Quill’s skull.