Page 31 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“Yes, exactly,” Gunnilde agreed at once. “He’s at least sixty-five years old.”

James beheld her speechlessly. Good gods. “I am not fashionable enough for you it seems, madam,” he said sarcastically. “Perhaps you would prefer it if I ran around court in lime green short hose, puffed out like a popinjay.”

Gunnilde flushed indignantly. “And I am not studious enough for you, Sir James, it seems,” she replied at once. “You would doubtless prefer it if I ran around court fawning over scholars and dusty old tomes about mathematics and medicine!”

A cleared throat behind them made them both jump and swing around. It was Neville, stood by the door with an odd look on his face. “Sorry to interrupt,” he muttered, a smile playing about his lips.

“When did you get back?” James demanded, sitting up straight in his seat. “I did not hear you enter.”

“No, you were both far too absorbed to notice me,” his brother answered cheerfully. “I wondered if you were coming down to supper?”

James cleared his throat. “No, we, er, thought we’d take a quiet supper up here.”

“Ah, quite,” said Neville. “A cozy little supper together. Sounds just the thing.”

Immediately, James knew how Neville would be describing the scene to his friends. He scowled at him. “If you think for one minute—”

“She’s quite right about your stockings, you know,” Neville interrupted him. “You need to go bolder. Perhaps a nice plum purple or a bright pea green.”

“Get out, Neville.”

Neville laughed and ducked back out of the door.

Annoying swine.

10

Gunnilde finished her braid, tied it, and flung it over her shoulder. She ventured a quick look across the room at James, who had finished his wash and was now patting himself dry. Whoever would have thought that one day, she would be in a position to see the handsome Sir James Wycliffe clad only in his braies?

It was true, he was shivering and scowling at this present moment, muttering under his breath whenever he happened to stub his toe or drop his drying cloth, but even that did not detract from the fact he was fine and tall and had the face of an angel.

True, he would likely be one of the more disagreeable angels that turned up to condemn you or point a fiery sword in your direction but still...he was impressive to look at. She wondered what he must have been like as a squire.

Try as she might, she simply could not imagine him running to do his master’s bidding, obliging and eager with a dagger at his hip. No, he must have been a dissatisfactory sort of squire, she thought, rather Ancel Somers. Hal and his friends detested Ancel.

Ancel was Sir Ned’s squire and famously shirked his duties and was wildly unpopular with his fellow squires. He was afraid of horses, disliked dogs, and was always trying to skip out on his obligations. She recalled Sir Ned’s exasperation and experienced a pang.

Quickly, she banished both Ancel and Sir Ned from her mind. She didn’t want her thoughts to go haring off in that direction. That would never do. Instead, she turned back to contemplate James in his braies. That was a much nicer subject. The damp hair at his neck was forming into clinging curls there, for he wore it quite long. “Have you ever jousted?” she asked impulsively, propping herself up on her elbow. His shoulders were nice and broad even though he was not heavily muscled.

He cast down his drying cloth onto a nearby chair. He was tidy for a man, she thought. Hal would have thrown it down on the floor. “No, I have not.”

“Oh. Never wanted to?”

“No,” he repeated.

“Who was your master when you were a squire?”

He cast an impatient look her way. “Why? Do you think you might have heard of him?”

“I might, if he competed. You never know.” Ignoring her, he made for the bed. “You must have completed the necessary training to be a knight,” she persisted. “After all, you have been knighted.”

“Of course,” he answered impatiently.

“My father greatly admires knights and pageantry,” she said. “As do my brother and I.”

Pulling back the covers, he climbed into the bed. “There are different kinds of knights, Gunnilde. Those that like jousting, wenching, and drinking till they pass out and those that do not. You happen to have married the latter, a fault entirely of your own making, I might add.”

“Wine, wench, and song, you mean. Is that not what the ballad says?”