The Welsh Lord’s Mistress
Margaret Moore
Dear Reader:
When I first heard about Harlequin Historical’s new short story program, Undone, the shortest romance I’d ever written was a 25,000 word novella. Given that a novella has the same requirements regarding the love story that a novel does—to show the hero and heroine falling in love and forming a lasting relationship—novellas aren’t easy to write. How much more difficult would it be to write a historical romance with even fewer words at the author’s disposal?
Then I finished THE WARLORD’S BRIDE and found myself with a bit of a dilemma. I had implied that there was an attraction between two secondary characters, the hero’s brother Trefor and Bron, a maidservant. However, I wasn’t planning to write another full length medieval right away, so it looked like Trefor and Bron might have to wait awhile.
But I really liked Trefor and Bron and didn’t want to leave them languishing, so I thought, “Why not try this new format to give Trefor and Bron a happy ending?”
Writing The WELSH LORD’S MISTRESS turned out to be a better experience than I imagined. It was interesting and enjoyable to write about Bron and Trefor in a way that kept the focus so closely on them - and to discover that I can indeed write a viable, interesting, exciting romance in only 15,000 words.
At least, I think I can, and I hope you agree.
With special thanks to Amy Wilkins, Malle Vallik and the eHarlequin team for their support, encouragement, advice, patience and good humor.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter One
Llanpowell, Wales, 1205
Her heart racing, Bron stared at the man standing in the great hall of Llanpowell. She would know him anywhere, even though he had changed.
Trefor ap Gruffydd, disgraced son of the late lord of Llanpowell, had come home at last. The feud with his younger brother Madoc was finally over.
“Bron, take Owain to the kitchen. I think he’d probably like some bread or soup,” Madoc, the lord of Llanpowell, ordered, reminding her of the other shock they’d received that day–that the little boy standing beside Trefor was not Madoc’s son, but Trefor’s, a secret Madoc had kept since the lad’s mother had died giving birth to him six years ago. “Or honey cakes?” the five-year-old asked, his voice clear and confident, as befit the son of a nobleman.
“Yes, my lord,” Bron dutifully replied, smiling, although she wanted to stay and study Trefor’s altered visage. Where before there had been only ease and merriment in his blue eyes rimmed with black, now there was a cold wariness. His well-muscled, broad-shouldered body was leaner and harder, his face more angular and thin, providing ample proof that the formerly pampered son of the late lord of Llanpowell had become a battle-hardened warrior.
“Thank you, Bron,” Trefor said. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
She flushed and said nothing, but it was thrilling to think that the noble son of the household remembered a poor serving wench who’d been little more than a girl when he’d been sent away. She felt as if she could fly right up to the beams holding the high slate roof.
Or perhaps he simply said that to flatter her as he would any woman, Bron thought as she led Owain to the kitchen, her excitement dwindling as quickly as it had kindled. Trefor had always been a charming fellow, the favored eldest son destined for a happy, blessed life, until he’d come drunk to his own wedding and fresh from a brothel. The bride’s family had been so upset, they’d threatened to end an alliance that had lasted three generations. To prevent that, Trefor’s younger brother, Madoc, had married the bride and been named his father’s heir. Ever since, and although Trefor had been given a small estate by his father, the brothers had been sworn enemies, until today, when Madoc had revealed the truth about Owain’s parentage and so made peace between them.
“Is it true?” Hywel, the cook, demanded as Bron and Owain entered the kitchen. “Not Madoc’s son at all, but Trefor’s?”
“Aye,” Bron replied, realizing the other kitchen servants were likewise standing idle.
“The very eyes of him, to be sure!” Rhonwen exclaimed, her hands still covered in flour although her bread bowl stood neglected.
Owain’s grip on Bron’s hand tightened, and Bron hurried to set him more at his ease.
“Are there any honey cakes?” she asked as she led the boy to a bench beside one of the worktables in the vast, warm kitchen.
“There are,” Lowri, an older woman, confirmed, leaving the leeks she’d been chopping for stew. “I’ll fetch you some.”
On her way to the storeroom, Lowri paused to whisper to Rhonwen and glanced pointedly at Bron, who caught Trefor’s name and blushed. She should have been more guarded about her admiration of the lord’s son and kept her dismay to herself when he’d been cast out. It was too late to change that, but she must hide her feelings better now..
Lowri returned with two small honey cakes, and the boy devoured them as if he’d been starving.
“Is Trefor staying,” Rhonwen asked, “or will he be going back to Pontyrmwr before nightfall?”
“I don’t know,” Bron truthfully replied and as if she didn’t particularly care.
“Go and ask,” Hywel ordered. “I’ll have to know for…”
The cook fell silent when Trefor himself strolled into the kitchen. “Well, Hywel, still here, I see,” he remarked, his deep voice as smooth and musical as a minstrel’s.
The Voice of Temptation, women used to call him and justly so, although he’d never tried to seduce Bron. He’d never paid any attention to her at all. Hywel nodded a greeting as he wiped his hands on the apron spread across his ample middle.
“And Rhonwen and Lowri, too. Like old times, eh?”
So, he remembered them all. Clearly she had been a fool to assign any significance to his memory of her. He also obviously still possessed the charm that had made him such a favorite with noble and peasant alike.
“Have you had enough to hold you until supper, my son?” he asked Owain, joy in his voice when he called the boy his own.
It must have meant so much to him to learn he had a child by the woman he had loved, even if he’d lost Gwendolyn to Madoc and then the grave.
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.
Chapter Two
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.”
She started to go past him, but Trefor put his hand on her arm to detain her, his touch adding to her misery. “Thank you, Bron.”
She blinked back her silly, useless tears. He was a lord, and she was just a serving wench in his brother’s household. “Hywel is waiting for these apples, my lord.”
“I’ll take them to him,” Trefor said, lifting the basket from her. “You get your things. I want to leave as soon as possible.”
“Yes, my lord,” she obediently replied.
With swift, agitated steps, Trefor paced the dais of Madoc’s hall. How long did it take a woman to pack a few clothes? It seemed like half the day had passed since he’d asked Bron to help him with his son.
Thank God she had agreed; had she not, he supposed he would have had to send for Owain’s foster parents. It was much easier to ask for Bron’s help, though, for she was closer and less trouble to fetch, even if she reminded him of the golden days of his youth before he’d made so many terrible mistakes.
“For the love of God, will you sit down and have some wine?” Madoc commanded from his seat near the hearth. “Pacing like a caged bear won’t make Bron finish any quicker.”
“I know that,” Trefor muttered as he threw himself into the other carved-oak chair. “But the sooner we can get back to Pontyrmwr, the sooner she can take Owain in hand. I tell you, Madoc, I’m at my wit’s end with the lad.”
Madoc handed his older brother a goblet of wine. “What do you expect? He’s just like you.”
Trefor gave Madoc a suspicious look, for he tho
ught Owain far more like Madoc. “Trying to start another feud, are you?”
Madoc shook his head. “By the saints, no! I realize he can be a handful.” He sighed heavily. “I wish I’d been honest with you both from the start.”
“You’re no more to blame than I for what happened between us,” Trefor replied, sorry that he’d brought up the past. If there was one subject he ought to avoid, it was that—and Gwendolyn. “I just need some help with him before Isabelle and her dowry arrives. Once Bron gets Owain behaving as he should, all will be well.”
Or so he fervently hoped.
“Aye, Bron’s good with boys, and babies, too. I don’t know what Roslynn would do without her, which is why it’s a good thing she’s not here, or you might have had to be a lot more persuasive.”
Trefor finally asked a question that he’d been wondering about for months. “Is that why Bron hasn’t married, because Roslynn needs her?”
“Not at all,” Madoc answered without hesitation. “We’d both be happy for her if she found a good man to marry. But she doesn’t seem interested in any who’ve pursued her. Freezes them out cold, she does, with a look like the Queen of Winter.”
Trefor could hardly believe they were speaking of the same Bron.
“Mind you,” Madoc continued with a wry grin, “that hasn’t stopped a few from asking me for her hand, including Uncle Lloyd.”
Trefor nearly spit out his wine. “Uncle Lloyd?”
“He wasn’t serious, of course. Just teasing her. She did say the oddest thing though—that she was already in love, so no point to asking her. I suppose she was just teasing him back.”
Although Madoc was probably right, Trefor had the sudden intense urge to go to Bron and ask her if she was in love with anybody, even if that was not his right.
“You had best watch over her well, Trefor,” Madoc warned, “for Roslynn will have both our heads if anything bad happens to her.”
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