Page 69 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“What did you say?” he asked, looking across at her. A rowdy discussion behind them had spilled over into heated words. He glanced in that direction before releasing her foot and rounding the table to sit back down beside her.

“Sometimes fights break out which you won’t see in a private parlor,” he said apologetically as she replaced her boot. “If you start to feel uncomfortable let me know and we can move on from here. There are three more taverns on this street.”

“I feel entirely safe with you,” Gunnilde replied truthfully. “But if you have had your fill of these minstrels then mayhap we should move on to the next establishment.”

James nodded, getting to his feet and reaching down for her. He pulled her cloak tight about her and lifted her hood, fastening it under her chin. “Put on your mittens.”

“Anything else?” Gunnilde asked. He was definitely acting differently tonight. She just could not quite put her finger on how.

“Yes. Stay close to me.”

21

Gunnilde woke the next morning with a somewhat foggy head and only fuzzy recollections of tumbling into bed the night before. She had drunk too much mead at that last tavern, partly because the ale there was bitter, and partly to cover her nervousness.

Recalling her strange skittishness with James the night before, she almost groaned aloud. She hoped to goodness he had not noticed! James had barely wet his lips all night, she remembered, and suspected it was because he was the one responsible for their safety.

He had been surprisingly protective. Mayhap that was what had thrown her so much. It was at this point that she realized she had one leg draped over James’s and an arm slung proprietorially about his waist. Oh gods!

Glancing up, she found his eyes closed and breathed out a sigh of relief. James was flat on his back and clearly fast asleep. When she tried to withdraw her arm, however, his lips moved in a muttered protest.

“What did you say?” she whispered.

“I said, don’t move. I am comfortable as we are,” he murmured huskily.

“Oh.” Gunnilde squinted at the window, wondering about the time. “It must soon be time for Bennett to appear,” she observed. That foolishly quavery quality was back to her voice again. She sounded like such a goose!

“He has already been.” His eyes remained determinedly closed. “Go back to sleep. Your head must be sore.”

“It isn’t sore,” Gunnilde said, cautiously raising it from the pillow bearer. “It merely feels a little heavy. I think that mead was rather strong in the King’s Head.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I think it was.”

“Did you, er, enjoy yourself last night?” Gunnilde asked with some trepidation. She wished this husband of hers was not so hard to read. Had he found her trying company? Would he admit to such a thing, even if he had?

“Yes.”

“Thank you for taking care of me last night,” she said in a small voice. “I hope it was not too onerous a task.”

His eyes sprang open. “Of course it was not.” His voice was a little rougher in the morning. A little deeper. “It is my right. My responsibility, I mean.” His eyelids drifted back down.

“But it meant you could not simply enjoy yourself as I did,” she pointed out.

He turned his head, though his eyes remained closed. “What gave you the impression I did not enjoy myself?” he asked, frowning.

She hesitated. “You did not tap your foot or sing along.”

“No,” he agreed. “Yet I enjoyed myself all the same.”

“Because of the entertainment?” Mayhap he had preferred the musicians they had seen later in the evening, she pondered, though he had not seemed particularly taken with any of them at the time.

“Because of”—his eyes opened a crack—“the company.”

“Oh.” Gunnilde’s heart beat a little faster. “I think you just liked playing with my feet,” she joked.

“I did like that,” he admitted without a trace of shame. “I like...touching you.”

Gunnilde drew back a little. “Well! You certainly speak much more frankly when your eyes are closed,” she observed with an awkward laugh.