It wasn’t until six in the morning that Quill understood that intuitive medical diagnoses should be seen as one of Gabby’s virtues, not the least of which was a masterful sense of rhythm. Rosy light crept into the corners of the room, but no ominous purple shadows flashed at the corners of his vision. His stomach didn’t lurch when he carefully eased Gabby’s sleeping body off his shoulder and stood up. He was stiff. His hip was sore, as if he’d worked too hard in the orchard. It protested when he stretched. But his head was miraculously clear. A grin of pure, unadulterated joy broke over Quill’s face.

He leaned over and ran a hand up Gabby’s satiny thighs. In her sleep, she sighed and her legs fell slightly open. Shuddering, Quill forced himself to back away. He had a shrewd notion that his hip had taken all the motion it could handle at the moment. But tonight…ah, tonight.

It was enough to make a devil holler hymns.

Chapter 21

EMILY SLOWLY ROSE from her desk and cast a regretful look at her stained fingers. Somehow she had to learn to use a quill without endless splatters.

Lucien Boch bowed before her. Emily curtsied. When she looked up, she found that he had moved to stand just before her.

“Emily,” he said huskily.

She opened her mouth to say something polite, but the words died in her throat.

“I came to make certain that your dragon did not reappear,” Lucien said. “But he isn’t here.”

“No,” Emily managed. “Mr. Hislop did not visit this morning.”

Lucien took her hands in his and turned them over, looking at her beautiful, dirty fingers. “Perhaps you should wear gloves.”

“They cost too much to ruin with ink,” Emily said, pride in her voice. She tried to tug her hands away.

He kept her right hand and raised it to his lips, pressing her palm against his mouth.

“I would like to buy you gloves,” he said suddenly.

Emily tugged harder at her hand. “So would the dragon,” she pointed out. “I buy my own gloves, monsieur.”

“Do you speak French, Emily?”

“I prefer Mrs. Ewing. And yes, I speak some French. I had a tutor as a child.”

“Forgive me the impertinence. I have thought about you as Emily, and it slipped out. I should like to know more about your childhood.”

It was a very odd conversation, to Emily’s mind. What they were saying seemed to have little to do with the way he was looking at her. Or, she very much feared, the way she was looking back at him.

He was beautiful, this Frenchman. He was just a half head taller than she was, which meant that she could see long eyelashes curving against his cheek as he looked down at her hands. Her heart was pounding in her throat now.