The Welsh Lord's Mistress

by Margaret Moore

  “No doubt. There’ll be plenty of honey cakes for you back at Pontyrmwr.”

  “I don’t want to go back. If Da won’t marry you, I won’t stay in Pontyrmwr,” he protested, and it heartened her to think he had enough strength to argue. Perhaps he hadn’t been in the bog very long, after all. “We can talk about that later after you’ve had a nice hot bath and something to eat and a rest, too.”

  “I was walking all night, Bron. And nobody missed me, did they? Not my Da or anybody.”

  He sounded as if he might start to cry.

  “Of course he did. He’s had everybody looking for you.”

  “Everybody?”

  “All the men and the servants, and he came to my house himself, hoping you’d come for a little visit with me.”

  “I wanted to, Bron, but I was afraid I’d say something to make you sad again.”

  She had tried to hide her dismay when Owain had repeated what Isabelle’s father had called her, but clearly she hadn’t succeeded. Now she didn’t want to suggest he’d been wrong, lest she upset him more.

  “I’m always glad to see you, Owain, and if I’m sometimes a little sad, you always cheer me up.”

  “I d-do?”

  “Aye,” she confirmed as she finally reached the boulder. Putting her hands on top to steady herself, she made her way around it—to see Owain up to his shoulders in mud and water, holding with both hands an exposed root from a gnarled old tree that had fallen. The stick he’d waved lay a little way off. The brave boy must have let go of the root with one hand to hold that stick to wave, and it didn’t take a physician or apothecary’s learning to realize, from Owain’s pale face, blue lips and strained features, that he was nearly at the limit of his strength. “I’m going to pull you out, Owain.”

  “Don’t go that way!” he called as she started toward the right. “That’s the way I went. It’s slippery.”

  “I’ll be careful,” she said, moving slowly to the left, keeping hold of the boulder with one hand and testing the ground with her foot before putting her weight on it. If she could get to the tree trunk, she could sit or lie on it to get near Owain.

  Time slowed to a crawl as she ventured carefully closer, time during which Owain shivered and shut his eyes. She must keep him awake. If he fell asleep, his hold would slacken and he would slip below the water. “Owain, did I ever tell you about the time I was helping my mother dye some yarn and fell into the vat?”

  The boy’s eyes opened. “You d-did?”

  “Aye. I was standing on a stool and leaned over too far. We were using blackberries, so when I got out, I was blue from head to foot, even my hair. Your uncle Madoc said I looked like a big blackberry. I’ve never really cared for blackberries since.”

  Owain managed an exhausted smile as she reached the fallen tree.

  “I’m going to lie on the trunk and move forward so I can grab your hands,” she said. If he was too deep for her to pull out, at least she could hold him until help arrived.

  Ignoring the bumps and roughness of the trunk, she moved forward, until the trunk began to dip down toward Owain. She grabbed it tightly and held her breath, fearing it might strike him or she might slip if she moved too quickly. At last it rocked back again.

  “I’m going to have to go slowly, Owain,” she warned. “Can you move to the side, away from the trunk?”

  “I c-can’t m-move at all.”

  “Never mind, then,” she said. “How brave and strong you are, to hold on so long when I’m moving like an old woman.”

  “Y-you’re not o-old. If D-Da won’t marry you, I w-will when I’m grown up.”

  “Is that a promise?” she asked as she inched forward, trying to keep him talking.

  “A-aye.”

  “Then I shall be a lady.”

  “Y-you sh-should be,” he said, as his head tipped back and his eyes closed.

  “I’m here, Owain!” she cried, finally close enough. “Open your eyes! I’m going to grab your wrists.”

  The only way she could do that was to put both arms over one side of the tree trunk, twisting so that her feet dangled over the other. It was awkward, but the trunk was too wide to do it any other way. She grabbed hold of his muddy wrists. “I’ve got you!”

  She pulled and he came up, but only an inch, and she nearly fell forward.

  “I-I’m st-stuck.”

  Yes, he was, and too deep for her to tug him free. “Then we’ll just have to wait. It won’t be long. I met Gwilliam and told him to tell your father where I was going. He’ll be here soon, I’m sure. In the meantime, I’m going to sing you a song about sheep in the spring.”

  Chapter Eight

  Every moment seemed an age as Bron held on to Owain and sang. Her voice wavered and grew faint, while her arms felt as if they were being pulled from their sockets.

  And then—oh, sweet merciful God!—she heard Trefor calling their names.

  “Here!” she shouted as loudly as she could. “We’re here! Be careful!”

  At last Trefor appeared behind the boulder, with more men behind him.

  He muttered an oath as he took in the situation, then briskly ordered his men to form a chain, with him at the front. “Not long now, Owain. Hold on, Bron,” he said as he came around the rock, Gwilliam and the others following.

  He crawled over the tree trunk toward her until the trunk dipped closer to the muck because of the extra weight. She cried out for him to stop.

  “Can you move back at all, Bron?” he asked.

  “No. He’s stuck fast,” she replied. She looked down at Owain, whose eyes had closed again. “Hurry, Trefor! For God’s sake, hurry!”

  “Lie still,” he commanded. He ordered two men to sit on the trunk to counterbalance his and Bron’s weight. That done, he lay down and slid forward as if he were part snake until he could reach Owain. “I’ve got him. You can let go now, Bron.”

  “We’ll pull together,” she said, unwilling to release the boy until she was absolutely certain he was safe.

  “All right. Ready? Now!”

  Whether she was any help or not, the sticky, oozing mud made a terrible sucking sound as Owain was pulled slowly from the bog. His father kept pulling until he was able to sit and cradle his unconscious son in his arms.

  “Thank you, Bron,” Trefor whispered as he began to move back, propelling himself with one hand while holding Owain close with the other. “Thank you for finding my son.”

  “Wrap him in my shawl,” she said as she slowly followed.

  As Trefor reached the end of the tree trunk and bundled his son in the shawl, Gwilliam helped her to stand.

  “I’ll take Owain on Gwylit,” Trefor said, rising. “Gwilliam, I give Bron to your care. Treat her as you would a queen, for she has saved my son’s life.”

  Bron was too tired to object as she leaned on Gwilliam, who was half a head shorter than she. She would leave Pontyrmwr tomorrow, after she had rested and recovered her strength.

  “Da!” Owain sighed, opening his eyes.

  “Quiet now, my son, until you’re warm and rested,” his father gently ordered.

  “I’m going to marry Bron, Da. I told her so and she said yes.”

  “We’ll speak no more of weddings now, my son,” Trefor said as he carried Owain to his horse, leaving Bron to follow and wonder what he was thinking, for she could read nothing at all in his inscrutable face.

  Mounted behind Gwillym, Bron spotted Lord Madoc of Llanpowell and his wife in the inner yard of Pontyrmwr. As the couple rushed to meet the returning party, she shrank behind the shorter man in front of her, too ashamed of what she had become to face them. “Thank God you found him!” Lord Madoc said as he reached up to take Owain from his brother, who was cradling his son on his lap. “I was about to ride out after you myself. What the devil got into you, Owain?”

  “I don’t like my Da’s bride.”

  His words caused an awkward silence. Bron didn’t know where to look, except at the ground, until she risked a
glance at Lady Roslynn, who was exchanging a meaningful look with her husband.

  What did that mean? Had something else happened during the search and Owain’s rescue that morning? Perhaps Isabelle had been so upset by Owain’s disappearance or the subsequent postponement of the wedding, she’d taken to her bed. Or maybe she’d balked and wanted to call the wedding off completely.

  “Give Owain to me, Trefor,” Lady Roslynn said, offering no immediate explanation.

  “I’m not a babe!” Owain protested. “I can walk!”

  “That may be, but I’ll take no chances,” Lady Roslynn replied.

  This time, Owain didn’t object and, belying his declaration, laid his head wearily on her shoulder as she carried him into the hall. Meanwhile, Gwilliam dismounted and helped Bron to the ground. She was bone-weary and chilled and muddy, but she could manage to walk back to her house.

  She must. She couldn’t stay here.

  “Owain need not worry about Isabelle, although he might be angry with me for another reason,” Trefor said as he got off Gwylit and went toward Bron. “Owain wants to marry Bron and apparently she accepted, but I’m hoping she’ll marry me, instead.”

  Marry him? For one wonderful moment, Bron dared to believe it could be possible, until she faced the truth and shook her head. Even though he looked at her with love in his eyes for all to see, his rank and duty stood between them. “You can’t,” she murmured, backing away. “I’m only a servant and you’re a nobleman, and you’ve made a marriage contract with Isabelle’s father.” Sessylt was the sort of man who would hold him to it, too. “And you need her dowry.”

  “I don’t care if you’re a servant or what bargains I’ve made or if I must break my word or how much I have to pay Sessylt in recompense,” Trefor replied. “All night I wrestled with what I ought to do. How could I claim to love you, Bron, and make you little better than a whore? How could I marry another woman knowing she could never have my heart and that I would never be faithful to her? How was that fair to you, or Isabelle?

  “It isn’t, so it must be honorable marriage to you, Bron, or no one, for I’ll never love or desire another woman as I do you. Nor do I think Isabelle will regret the loss of such a husband. What do you say, love of my life? Will you make me the happiest man in Wales and be my wife?”

  Was it…could it be possible? He would give up the money, break the contract, face penalty and censure to marry a servant? “I can’t…I don’t think…”

  “Don’t think. Tell me what you feel. If you don’t want to marry me—”

  “Want to marry you?” she cried as a joy such as she had never felt swept over her. “To be your bride, your wife, even if we had to live in a hut in the bog, would be a dream come true! Yes, Trefor, yes, I’ll marry you—although for your sake, I should re—”

  She didn’t get a chance to finish before he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Feeling a wondrous rush of desire and happiness and hope, her weariness and aching muscles forgotten, Bron returned his kiss with equal fervor, as if they were alone.

  Until Lord Madoc cleared his throat. “As much as I hate to interrupt, you won’t have to pay Isabelle’s father a penny in compensation or worry about breaking your word. Indeed, Sessylt’s already compensated you.”

  Equally baffled, Bron and Trefor moved apart, although Trefor kept hold of her hand. “What do you mean?” he asked warily.

  “It seems, brother, that the bride absconded during the search for Owain with one of the men of her escort. Her father raved like a madman when he found out and would have left right then, had Uncle Lloyd not been here to remind him that a contract had been signed. Uncle Lloyd may be a comical fellow when he’s in his cups, but there’s nobody can drive a man to strike a bargain faster–if only to make Uncle Lloyd be quiet,” Madoc added with a wink.

  Isabelle had run away? And with one of her father’s men? Although Bron couldn’t really understand how any woman would refuse Trefor, she hoped Isabelle found happiness with her lover, as she had.

  Trefor grinned as he pulled Bron close beside him. “Where is my uncle? I should thank him.”

  “Looking in your buttery for more wine. Now we had best get you both inside and fed. Bron looks completely worn out—and you not much better, Trefor.”

  Trefor regarded his brother as if the man had challenged him to combat. “Tired, am I? Worn-out, you think? I’m not so tired I can’t do this,” he said as he swept Bron up into his arms and started toward the hall.

  She wrapped her arms around him, not the least inclined to protest. She was where she belonged, in his arms and in his hall, in his heart and in his bed.

  “I love you, Trefor ap Gruffydd, Lord of Pontyrmwr,” she whispered. “I’ve loved you since I was ten years old.”

  “As I’ve loved you since the day I heard you sing,” he said before he brushed a tender kiss across her lips and carried her over the threshold. “Welcome home, my lady.”

  Read Madoc and Roslynn’s story in The Warlord’s Bride by Margaret Moore, on sale now from HQN Books wherever eBooks are sold.

  If you enjoyed this story by USA Today bestselling author Margaret Moore, read her other historical romances available now in eBook format:

  Medieval

  The Warlord’s Bride

  Knave’s Honor

  The Notorious Knight

  My Lord’s Desire

  Hers to Desire

  Hers to Command

  The Unwilling Bride

  Lord of Dunkeathe

  Bride of Lochbarr

  Regency

  A Lover’s Kiss

  The Viscount’s Kiss

  For more information about Margaret Moore and her books, visit:

  Her website:

  www.margaretmoore.com

  Her blog:

  www.margaretmoore.blogspot.com

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  Enjoy more passion through the ages with the sensual Harlequin Historical UNDONE titles on sale now:

  THE WARRIOR’S FORBIDDEN VIRGIN by Michelle Willingham

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  HIS SILKEN SEDUCTION by Joanna Maitland

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  USA TODAY bestselling author Margaret Moore actually began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely, spirited damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief.

  Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto with a Bachelor of Arts degree in English literature. During that time, she also became a Leading Wren with the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve.

  While at home with her first child, Margaret’s friend gave her The Wolf and the Dove by Kathleen Woodiwiss. She was hooked on historical romance and decided to try her hand writing one. In 1991 she sold her first historical romance, A Warrior�
�s Heart, to Harlequin Historical. Since then she has written more than forty historical romances for Harlequin and Avon Books, as well as a young-adult historical romance.

  Margaret has been a Romantic Times finalist for Career Achievement in Medieval Historical Romance, won the award for Best Foreign Historical from Affaire de Coeur, and two of her heroes have received K.I.S.S. (Knights in Shining Silver) awards from Romantic Times. In 2005 her medieval romance The Unwilling Bride made the USA TODAY bestseller list. The sequel, Hers to Command, was nominated for a Reviewers’ Choice award by SingleTitles.com.

  Margaret lives in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. When not writing, Margaret updates her Web site and blogs.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-4175-0

  The Welsh Lord’s Mistress

  Copyright © 2009 by Margaret Wilkins

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  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.