The Welsh Lord's Mistress

by Margaret Moore

  Trefor shifted in his chair. Whether Owain needed Bron’s guiding hand or not, maybe it was a mistake to take her to Pontyrmwr. Here at Llanpowell, he could ignore her and the feelings she aroused, but at Pontyrmwr…?

  He would not give way to lust again. Surely, knowing the trouble that had already caused him, he could control whatever urges came to plague him.

  Even if Bron aroused his desire as no woman ever had, including Gwendolyn and his bride-to-be. “I’ll see that nobody lays a hand on her,” he promised, and he included himself in that vow.

  Chapter Three

  “Owain, come back here!” Bron called a few days later as she ran up the stairs leading to Trefor’s solar and bedchamber.

  “I won’t!” the little boy shouted as he raced ahead of her. “You can’t order me! I’m the lord’s son!”

  Skittering to a stop on the landing at the top level of the ancient keep, Owain nearly collided with his father, who had come to the door of his solar.

  Bron halted a few steps below, her hand on the rickety wooden railing as she tried to catch her breath.

  “What is the meaning of this noise?” Trefor demanded, his hands on his hips. He sounded annoyed, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he regarded his son, who stood in exactly the same attitude.

  “Bron said I couldn’t help Thom groom your horse!”

  “Did she now?” Trefor replied, raising one dark brow as he looked past Owain to her. “Why not?”

  “Because Gwylit is half-wild, just as his name implies,” Bron retorted, too frustrated to be deferential.

  She’d lost years off her life when she’d seen the boy standing so close to the huge, black beast that had been a gift from Madoc. While Trefor looked magnificent astride him and had the strength to control him, a single blow from that animal’s hooves would surely be fatal to a child.

  “Besides, it’s late and he should be washing for the evening meal. He stinks like a barn in need of a good clean.”

  “He smells like a boy,” Trefor replied like a grin, reaching out to ruffle his son’s thick, dark wavy hair so like his own.

  Owain darted Bron a triumphant glance and smirked.

  Trefor frowned. “That doesn’t mean you don’t need a wash, my son, especially behind your ears. I could plant a crop in the dirt there.

  “As for Gwylit, Bron is right. He’s too large and strong for the likes of you, at least for now. When you’re bigger, you can try riding him, and if he doesn’t toss you off, I’ll be proud of you.”

  “I am big!” Owain protested, “and I only want to brush him.”

  Trefor crouched down so that he was eye to eye with the boy. “Well, we’ll see. Maybe if I’m with you, but until then, best keep clear of Gwylit. On my orders, my son. I would die myself if he hurt you.” Trefor rose and patted his son on the head. “Off with you now and I’ll see you in the hall in a bit.”

  Head bowed, shoulders slumped, Owain turned and headed down the stairs, ignoring Bron as he passed her. She went to follow, until Trefor said, “A word, if you please, Bron, in my solar.”

  Wondering what he wanted, she followed him into the small room outside his bedchamber where he met with his officers and kept the records of his estate. The only articles of furniture in the chamber were a battered table, an aged chair, a chest for holding records and a brazier with no coal or peat burning to warm the room.

  She waited near the open door as Trefor sat.

  “What do you make of my son?” he asked.

  Bron took a moment to answer. Owain was indeed a handful in need of discipline. He paid heed only to Trefor and swaggered around the castle as if he were a king.

  She finally settled on one truth that wouldn’t upset his father. “He’s a very healthy child.”

  Trefor barked a laugh. “That’s true. Never been sick a day since he’s been here, thank God.”

  Just as swiftly as he’d laughed, he grew serious again. “That’s not what I meant. What do you think of his manners?”

  Bron wished he hadn’t asked her.

  With a disgruntled expression, Trefor hoisted himself to his feet. “Your silence answers for you,” he muttered as he strode to one of the narrow loopholes that provided a little natural light. “He’s a handful and more.”

  “You spoil him, my lord. I understand why,” she added hastily, “but every time you give in to him, every time you let him argue his way out of a punishment or task, you tell him he can do as he pleases.”

  “I don’t always give in to him,” Trefor returned. “Just now, for instance. I told him to stay away from Gwylit.”

  “Yet you also made light of my reasonable concern. You made it sound as if I was exaggerating the danger, when you know I’m not.

  “You treat all my concerns that way, so Owain does, too. He is getting more disobedient every day, more sullen and sulky if he doesn’t get his way. I fear that soon it will be too late, and your bride will have an ill-tempered, disobedient stepson.”

  Trefor’s frown deepened and he crossed his arms. “He’s only six years old.”

  Bron took a few steps closer, determined to make Trefor see that he was doing Owain no favor by indulging him. “He has the makings of a fine boy—a fine man. He’s bold and brave, and he can be kindhearted and generous. He gave a puppy from the castle to one of the village boys when he found the lad crying because his own dog had died.”

  “I remember.”

  “Nevertheless, he must learn to respect his elders and do as he is told, at least until he’s old enough to make decisions for himself.”

  Trefor nodded slowly. “I see. Indeed, I know you’re right. If I hadn’t been given my own way so often, how different my life—aye, and my family’s, too—might have been. How much better.”

  When he spoke with such heartfelt remorse, how could her heart not go out to him? How could she not wish to ease his suffering? But that was not her place. It could never be her place.

  He gave her a wistful smile. “How did you get to be so wise, Bron?”

  She must be calm. Composed. Dutiful. Humble. “I have three younger brothers, my lord.”

  “Ah, yes, and rascals the lot of them. Are they all still at Llanpowell?”

  “Aye, my lord. Gareth and Gawain are in the garrison and Ifan is apprenticed to the blacksmith.”

  “And your parents?”

  “They died while you were…away, my lord.”

  “Away,” he repeated softly, staring at the floor. “One way to put it, I suppose.”

  She was sorry she’d reminded him of his painful past and wished once more there was something she could do or say to ease his mind. His heart. “I’m sorry you were sent away.”

  He raised his eyes and tilted his head as he studied her. “Did you ever think about me while I was away, Bron?”

  What could she say to that? The truth, that she’d thought about him every day? That every time she saw Madoc lead his men, she thought it should be Trefor at their head? That she could scarcely bear to look at Lady Gwendolyn, let alone serve her, after she’d married Madoc, instead of Trefor?

  Or should she lie? Or be silent?

  She settled for silence.

  “Would it surprise you to learn that I thought about you, Bron?” he asked with such a tone and look in his eyes, her heart raced as if she was being chased.

  “I did,” he went on. “A few months before I was to wed Gwendolyn, I saw you walking through the wood along the riverbank. I’d been fishing and fallen asleep, so I was lying down and you didn’t see me. You had a basket in your hand and you swung it as you walked. And you were singing, Bron, a song about the spring and sheep. You have a lovely voice for the singing, Bron, and you thought you were alone, so you weren’t shy about it.”

  He moved closer, his words like a spell holding her in place. “You were always such a shy girl, Bron, I hardly ever noticed you. I certainly noticed you that day, though, with your basket swinging and your hair loose and blowing in the breeze, and
a song on your lips. I never stopped seeing you after that, Bron. Every time there was a scent of the woods on the breeze, or I saw a basket, or heard the sheep bleating, and especially if there was a woman singing, I thought of you.”

  He came closer still, his words and the tender look in his eyes making her pulse leap. “There are a lot of breezes in Wales, Bron, and sheep, and many a basket and women who sing. I don’t suppose a day went by I wasn’t reminded of you one way or another.”

  She could scarcely breathe, scarcely think. He had thought of her so often, and with such…what? Affection? Or was it something else?

  “Because I reminded you of your home,” she proposed as he halted not six inches from her.

  “Perhaps. But I did miss you, Bron.” He put his hands on her shoulders, and she nearly swooned with the desire the weight of his hands brought surging to life within her. “I was glad that Madoc agreed to let you come here to help me. There was no one else I wanted as much.”

  As she wanted him. As she’d always wanted him.

  She looked up into his blue eyes, the irises bordered with black, and saw the same yearning that burned within her.

  “I shouldn’t want you, Bron,” he whispered. “I’m betrothed to another and bound to marry her. I shouldn’t have asked you to come here, and I should order you to go.”

  Go? She didn’t want to go. Not now, not ever, not when he was near.

  Then his arms were around her and it was as if they’d waited all their lives for this moment. He kissed her fervently, passionately, just as she’d so often dreamed, so she returned his fierce kiss with equal ardor, pressing her body against his, her breasts crushed against his powerful chest. His hands roved her body, caressing her, exciting her, arousing her desire as he was aroused, the evidence of his excitement powerful and potent, while her own body grew limp with longing.

  How many times had she imagined this? But no dream, no vision, no image conjured up by her mind matched the intensity of the longing and lust propelling her now. No thought of sin, no foreboding of shame or disaster, came between the desire of her heart and the urging of her body.

  Or his, it seemed, as he swept her up in his arms and carried her through the door to the inner chamber, where he set her down upon his large, curtained bed. He stepped back and looked down at her, his chest heaving, his lips as swollen from the pressure of her kisses as hers must be from his.

  There could be only one way for this to end, as if it had been decreed since she was a girl on the cusp of womanhood and felt the first flush of warmth as she looked at him. He had been the only man who’d ever made her feel that way.

  So she held out her arms in silent invitation, asking him to love her.

  He needed no other urging. He joined her on the bed, covering her body with his as he rained a flurry of light kisses upon her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids, the tip of her nose. Meanwhile, he leaned his weight on his left elbow, and his right hand found the lacing in the front of her bodice. She writhed with anticipation as he untied the knot, then gasped as his hand slipped inside. He cupped her breast through her shift and brushed the pad of his thumb over her taut nipple.

  She moved beneath him, opening her legs, feeling his hard arousal where she was warm and moist. Desperate for more intimacy, she ran her hands over his muscular back, then beneath his shirt and tunic to stroke his hot, bare flesh.

  His mouth captured hers with renewed vigor as she continued to caress him. She lowered her hand to the waistband of his breeches, working the drawstring until she could fit her hand inside.

  His lips still upon hers, he groaned when she touched the smooth hardness of him. Whispering words of encouragement, he pushed her bodice aside and nuzzled her shift lower until her breasts were exposed to his seeking mouth and tongue.

  Anxious with anticipation, craving him inside her, she raised her knees and reached down to tug her skirts upward.

  A shout came from outside, loud enough to reach them and penetrate the fog of their desire.

  Trefor pulled away and went to the window that overlooked the courtyard to see what was amiss. He gave a cry of alarm, then bolted from the room.

  Chapter Four

  Tying her bodice closed, Bron rushed down the stairs after Trefor and into the hall. Surrounded by grooms, stableboys, a few soldiers and some servants, Trefor was carrying Owain toward his cot in the warmest corner of the hall behind a painted wooden screen.

  “What happened?” Bron cried, fearing the worst as she hurried to join them.

  “I’m all right, Bron,” Owain said, raising his head and giving her a smile, although a bruise and a lump were forming on his right temple.

  “It was Gwylit,” Trefor told her after he laid his son on the cot and ordered the other onlookers to go back to their duties. “I’ve sent for the physician.”

  “I wasn’t trying to groom him,” Owain explained. “I was just looking at him and he started to move, so I jumped back and fell over a bucket and hit my head on the post.”

  Now that she’d gotten a closer look, Bron didn’t think Owain was badly hurt. She’d gotten such a lump herself once, when Gareth had collided with her while they were playing. Even so, she was glad Trefor had summoned a physician.

  “You can go, too, Bron,” Trefor said.

  His tone was so cool and dismissive, especially after what had just happened between them, she felt as if he’d hit her.

  Perhaps that was what he intended. Maybe he regretted what they’d done and been about to do, and so was anxious to be rid of her.

  “I want Bron to stay,” Owain protested, reaching for her hand. “I don’t like it when the doctor comes.”

  “Very well, she can stay.”

  Bron told herself to pay no heed to Trefor’s tone. It was Owain who needed her now, not him. “It doesn’t hurt much, does it?” she asked as she sat beside Owain on the cot.

  “It hurts a lot,” he declared. “I think some honey cakes would help.”

  “Then you might give yourself a stomach-ache. Your stomach’s not upset already, is it?”

  “Not a bit,” he replied.

  If his head was badly hurt, he would likely be sick to his stomach, too, she thought with relief. “Well, let’s wait and see what the doctor says.”

  Owain’s frown deepened. “He’ll probably make me drink something that tastes bad.”

  “Then a honey cake might be just the thing to take away the taste.”

  That brought a smile to Owain’s face and he settled on his pillow as if all was now quite well with the world.

  Bron wished she could be so content, but she feared she’d never be content again. Being intimate with the man she’d loved from afar for so long was a heady and dangerous experience. If Owain hadn’t gotten hurt, it would have ended with her deflowering. And then what? What future could she hope to have with Trefor ap Gruffydd, lord of Pontyrmwr? Not a future as his wife, that much was certain.

  She got to her feet. “A poultice might help keep the swelling down. I’ll go make one right away.”

  Owain grabbed her hand. “Can’t somebody else make it?” he asked, looking from her to his father.

  “Not like Bron,” his father said. “Her mother was skilled in such things, so I’m sure she is, too. I’ll stay with you.”

  “I want Bron, not you.”

  Despite his cool, distant manner since they’d parted, Bron would have given much to spare Trefor that blow.

  “Your father should be here when the doctor comes, and I won’t be long,” she said. “Get your da to tell you about the time he fell out of a tree. He would have landed on his head if his breeches hadn’t gotten caught on a branch, and there they found him, hanging in the air like a pheasant being aged.”

  Owain grinned at his father. “Really?”

  “Yes, my son, really, and an affront to my dignity it was, too,” his father said as Bron hurried away.

  A few hours later, after the physician had examined Owain and assured them he wasn’
t gravely injured, after the evening meal had been served and Owain had fallen asleep with Bron seated beside his cot, she rose, arched her back to ease the ache that had developed from sitting so long and went around the screen. Trefor sat by the hearth, staring into the flames. She wanted to retire without speaking to him, but he had asked to be told when Owain was sleep.

  What was Trefor thinking about? she wondered as she approached. The narrow escape Owain had had today? How his son had disobeyed him, and what he should do about that?

  Or was he thinking of her and what they had nearly done? If so, was he glad for the interruption, or sorry?

  Was he contemplating his bride? Was the wait for his wedding night growing unbearable, so he had been about to take another woman to ease his need? Had she merely been a convenient, all-too-willing substitute?

  Or were his thoughts on Gwendolyn, who’d died giving birth to Owain? Or his brother’s great lie, that Owain was Madoc’s son, not Trefor’s? Was he thinking about the past and his long exile from his family’s home?

  “My lord?” she said softly when she was close enough that he would hear her whisper. She didn’t want to disturb any of the soldiers and servants sleeping nearby on their pallets.

  Trefor raised his eyes to look at her.

  “Owain’s asleep. The doctor told me to wake him every so often and fetch him if I can’t, but otherwise no more need be done.”

  Trefor nodded his head. “Thank you, Bron. If Owain had died, I don’t know what I would have…” He sighed raggedly as he turned back to look at the dancing flames.

  She took a deep breath to help strengthen her resolve. “My lord, I must beg leave to return to Llanpowell.”

  He stiffened and glanced up at her sharply. “What?”

  “Your household is prepared for your guests. I have done what I can with Owain and told you what you need to do, so I think it would be best if I go.”

  Trefor frowned as he got to his feet. “I don’t. Owain still disobeys, as this accident proves.”

  Mindful of the people close by, Bron stepped back. “My lord, I must go. I have little except my virtue, and if I stay…” She took another deep breath. “I may not have that much longer.”