Margaret Moore - The Welsh Lord's Mistress

Owain nodded as he warily regarded the man with eyes so like his own.

“Will you show me about the castle, Owain?” Trefor asked. “It’s been years since I was anywhere in Llanpowell except the courtyard and Madoc tells me he’s made a few changes.”

Owain looked desperately at Bron. “I haven’t been here in a long time, either, have I, Bron?” he protested. “Maybe you should take him.”

Trefor’s dark brows rose. “You think I should let Bron take me?”

The lad’s suggestion had been innocent enough, but when Trefor ap Gruffydd repeated it, with that voice and that look in his eye, the words took on a very different meaning—one that wasn’t lost on the other servants in the kitchen, either, as Bron’s swift survey revealed.

“Well, Bron, shall I defer to my son?” Trefor prompted.

Never had the kitchen seemed so quiet.

What choice did she have? Trefor was the lord of Pontyrmwr, if not Llanpowell, and she was just a servant. “If that is what you wish, my lord.”

“My brother has been busy,” Trefor remarked as he stood beside Bron on the battlements overlooking the outer wall of Llanpowell. “I knew he’d built up the outer defenses and added buildings, but I had no idea he’d done so much.” He leaned back against one of the merlons. “At least the hall’s the same, or I’d think I was somewhere else completely.”

Bron nodded in response and continued to look out over the wall, away from Trefor and his broad shoulders and strong arms crossed over his muscular chest. Although he was plainly attired in leather tunic, breeches and boots, with his sword belt slung low around his narrow hips, he looked as regal as a king. He always had and, she suspected, always would, no matter what difficulties beset him.

“I confess I was surprised to see you, Bron,” he continued. “I thought you’d be married and have a gaggle of children by now. You’re about nineteen, aren’t you?”

He remembered her age? “Aye, my lord.”

Surely a pretty girl like you has had offers.”

Yes, she had, but not from the man she’d dreamed about—dreams as real as life, except that in her dreams, she was a lady and thus worthy to be Trefor’s bride and share his life.

His bed.

In her dreams they had made love countless times. Sometimes he was tender, whispering words of endearment and encouragement with his wonderful voice as he kissed her and his hands stroked her body. Other times he approached with more lusty determination. Her response was eager, fervent, for in her dreams, there were no consequences to making love with the man she had admired since she was a girl.

“Madoc didn’t refuse to allow a marriage, did he?”

“There was nobody I cared to marry, my lord,” she managed to answer as a blush heated her face. Except you, and that can never be.

“I can’t believe you’ve found no one to wed in all the time I’ve been gone.”

His words were a torment, as if he were rooting about in her heart. “I’m not a lady or rich man’s daughter,” she reminded him. “I have little to offer a husband.”

“I wouldn’t say that, Bron,” he replied, running a measuring gaze over her.

Other men had looked at her with lust. More than one had laid hands on her, to be rebuffed and rebuked, told by Lord Madoc that his servants weren’t to be used for their pleasure.

This was different. Embarrassing, and yet exciting, too.

What would she do if he did more than look? If he took her in his arms, kissed and caressed her intimately? If he maneuvered her back against the stone wall, raised her skirts and…

Shocked by her own brazen, lustful thoughts, she said the first thing that came into her head. “You have yet to marry, too, my lord, although Lady Gwendolyn has been dead for many years.”

He reared back as if she’d slapped him.

“I’ve dawdled here long enough” he snapped as he started toward the steps leading to the yard below.

Silently berating herself for mentioning his lost beloved, Bron watched him go. Again.

Llanpowell, ten months later

“Here you are, Bron.”

She whirled around to find Trefor ap Gruffydd in the doorway of the storeroom where she’d come to get a dozen dried apples for Hywel. Trefor’s tone was as calm and casual as if they spoke every day, yet it had been months since they’d been on the wall walk, and every time Trefor had come to Llanpowell since, he’d not said a single word to her.

Bron held her basket against her stomach like a shield. “My lord?” she replied, her voice a whisper although she hadn’t meant to be so quiet.

“I have a boon to beg of you, Bron.”

What could he want of her that required that almost bashful tone of voice? At least he must have forgiven her for reminding him about Gwendolyn. “Yes, my lord?”

“You’ve heard that Elidan and Idwal have gone to visit their daughter in Caerpowys?” he asked, speaking of Owain’s foster parents who had been staying in Pontyrmwr since Owain had come to live with Trefor.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Since they’ve been gone, Owain is proving to be…” Trefor hesitated, then continued with obvious frustration. “He won’t do what he’s told and he’s rude and insolent. Your brothers could be rascals but they always minded you, so I came to ask Madoc if you could come to Pontyrmwr to help me with my son for a little while. Since his wife’s gone to visit her parents and taken the baby, he’s agreed.”

Trefor ap Gruffydd wanted her help? “I’d be glad to be of service to you, my lord.”

Instead of looking relieved, however, Trefor frowned and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s important that Owain’s behavior improves soon. I’m getting married in a fortnight.”

Married. He was getting married.

Her basket tipped and dried apples tumbled to the floor of hardened earth, the scent of them heavy in the air as she crouched down to pick them up.

He came to help her, likewise crouching so that they were face-to-face.

She didn’t dare look at him, didn’t want to meet his gaze. Yet how often had she imagined being this close to him, alone and in such a private place? Except that in her dreams, he spoke of his love for her, not his son who needed a nursemaid or marrying another.

“You’re trembling,” Trefor noted. “Are you ill?”

She shook her head as she rose, determined to betray nothing of her feelings. “I wish you every happiness, my lord.”

“It’s time to think of my estate and make it as prosperous as I can for Owain and my people, too, and to do that, I need money,” he said, although he owed her no explanation. “Isabelle is a rich merchant’s daughter. She and her father will arrive in Pontyrmwr a few days before the wedding and Owain must be better behaved by then. I don’t want my bride thinking I have a brat for a son.”

Bron nodded.

“I also require some assistance to ensure that the hall is properly prepared and the food adequate. Madoc tells me you help Roslynn with such things, too.”

“Yes, my lord.”

His gaze softened, and when he spoke, it was gently, in a way that threatened to break her heart. “You don’t have to come back to Pontyrmwr with me if you’d rather not. I’ll find a way to manage my son and the household if you don’t.”

She wanted to refuse, but she thought of little Owain, who had had so many changes forced upon him in the past year. Soon there would be another, in the form of his father’s bride. “Since Lord Madoc and Lady Roslynn can spare me, I’ll do as you ask. When are we to leave?”

His shoulders relaxed. “As soon as you can be ready.”

“Then I had best get these apples to Hywel and pack my things.”