The Welsh Lord's Mistress

by Margaret Moore

  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.”

  A sorrowful look that went straight to her own lonely heart came to his blue eyes. What if Trefor ordered her to stay? What would she do then?

  “Very well, Bron,” he said, turning back to stare at the smoldering flames. “Go back to Llanpowell.”

  She should be pleased, or at least relieved, she told herself, so she murmured her thanks and left him, with her head held high and her shoulders straight.

  And her heart breaking.

  “I don’t want her to go!” Owain shouted, throwing his wooden bowl of porridge to the ground, where it split on the flagstones. “I want her to stay here! I need her!”

  So do I! Trefor wanted to shout just as petulantly. But Bron was right. If she stayed, her virtue would be in jeopardy., He wouldn’t have the strength to keep away from her after what had happened yesterday.

  What must not happen, even if he couldn’t rid himself of the notion that she, of all the women in the world, with her patience and goodness, could make him feel whole again. Even though she’d made it abundantly clear that he could rouse her desire.

  Especially because of that.

  Her virtue and passion ought to be kept for a more worthy man, one who could offer her lawful marriage, as he could not. It would be another act of sinful selfishness to take all that she offered when he could give her so little in return.

  Yet despite his resolve, his heart twisted with the familiar anguish of loss when Bron, with her woolen cloak over her shoulders and her small bundle in her hands, came around the screen.

  Owain sat up when he saw her. “You can’t go, Bron! I won’t let you!”

  “Is this how you would bid her goodbye?” Trefor said to his son, even though his own passionate need was begging him to order her to stay.

  With a choked sob, Owain buried his head in his pillow.

  Bron knelt beside the cot and stroked his back. “I’ll return for a visit soon,” she promised. “And Elidan and Idwal will be back before you know it. You’ll be glad to see them, won’t you?”

  “No!” came the muffled, fierce response. “They treat me like a baby!”

  “Will you not wish me a good journey, Owain,” she pleaded, “and give me a kiss goodbye? I’ll be getting no kisses from anyone else.”

  Trefor hoped not, although she was not his wife or betrothed and never could be. She wasn’t even his servant, but Madoc’s.

  Owain’s head appeared, his bruised forehead misshapen by the bump. “If I don’t kiss you goodbye, will you stay?” he asked.

  “I can’t,” she replied with firm conviction. “Lady Roslynn needs me back at Llanpowell to help her with the baby. You’re such a big boy, you don’t need a nursemaid, but little Mascen does. So now give me a kiss and wish me farewell.”

  The lad threw his arms around her and gave her a hearty smack. “Will you come back for the wedding?” he asked as she got to her feet. “Da says it will be a big celebration.”

  So it would be, and he would not enjoy a moment of it.

  “If Lady Roslynn needs me,” she answered as she rose and gave his son a smile before she said goodbye.

  At least it wasn’t raining, Bron thought as they rode toward Llanpowell. She was trying to find some comfort in her misery while avoiding looking at Trefor ahead of her. She would not note the sway of his hips as he sat on his horse, or his broad shoulders, or remember what they had almost done and the joy she’d felt in his arms.

  Perhaps she should ask Lady Roslynn and Lord Madoc if she could leave Llanpowell to seek work elsewhere…except they were kind, generous masters and she couldn’t assume she would find better. But she would try not to attend Trefor’s wedding. She would rather spend a day on her knees scrubbing out the filthiest storeroom in Llanpowell than see him claim another woman as his wife.

  Trefor held up his hand to halt. “Go back to Pontyrmwr,” he ordered his men. “Bron and I will go on alone from here.”

  They were close to Madoc’s castle, and after years of feuding, perhaps he feared an armed guard would be misinterpreted. Whatever Trefor’s reason, his men obeyed without question.

  Meanwhile, the lord of Pontyrmwr faced forward again and lightly punched his heels into Gwylit’s side before turning him from the road onto a path leading to the river that flowed past both Pontyrmwr and Llanpowell.

  “Do you wish to water the horses?” Bron asked as she followed him on the mare he’d provided for the journey.

  “Yes—and no,” he replied as he slipped from Gwylit and looped the reins around a low bush on the bank. “I would speak with you before you return to Llanpowell.”

  Speak to her about what? Owain? Or…something else?

  She was suddenly afraid, of what he would say—and what he might not.

  Chapter Five

  Confused, anxious, yearning, Bron tried to feel nothing as Trefor helped her off the mare, but as her body brushed against his, the memories of being in his arms returned with full force.

  Whatever he was feeling, he stepped back, putting some distance between them.

  “This is the place,” he said as he surveyed the riverbank and the alders and willows around them. “This is where I saw you walking and singing that day.”

  He turned toward Bron. “This is the place I imagine when I think of home, with you walking by on the road, singing.”

  She swallowed hard, not sure what to say.

  “I was a fool all those years ago, Bron,” Trefor said softly, his voice full of remorse. “I acted disgracefully when I saw my brother kissing a woman I thought was my betrothed. If I had gone to him then, I would have learned I was wrong. Instead, I got drunk and went to a brothel. By doing so, I lost Gwendolyn and the love and respect of my family, as well as that of the people of Llanpowell. It cost me Owain, too, until Madoc told me the truth and begged my forgiveness.

  “Pontyrmwr is almost a ruin because in my rage and bitterness I spent what money I had on mercenaries, thinking Madoc would surely try to take my small estate, too. Now I need money to repair the neglect of those years. That’s why I agreed to marry Isabelle. She has a large dowry and I need it if Pontyrmwr is to be the estate it ought to be.”

  His voice grew rough and his eyes burned with heartfelt longing. “Although I have no choice, I would give you one, Bron. You can go back to Llanpowell—or come back to Pontyrmwr with me.”

  She could scarcely believe her ears, even when he took hold of her hands and spoke as if pleading for his life. “I know it’s wrong and selfish of me to ask you, because I can’t break the marriage agreement I made with Isabelle’s father without penalty and more disgrace—but God forgive me, Bron, I don’t want to let you go. I don’t want to send you back to Llanpowell to be a servant and nursemaid to Madoc’s children.

  “I want you to be with me, if not in my household, then close by. I want any children you care for to be ours, Bron.

  “I know it is a great sacrifice I ask of you, Bron—your virtue for my happiness. I wouldn’t even dream of asking if I didn’t think…believe…hope that you want me, too.”

  Then Trefor ap Gruffydd, lord of Pontyrmwr, went down on his knees and gazed up at her like a beggar at the gates, no longer a warrior or lord of an estate, but a man vulnerable and anxious, lonely and longing. “I would take your reputation from you, and all I can give you in return is creature comforts and my love. Because I do love you, Bron. I think I’ve loved you since the day I saw you walking along the road, except I was too proud to admit it, even to myself. How could I, when all in Llanpowell believed that I loved Gwendolyn and was destined to be her husband? I felt the weight of all that expectation, as well as the envy of every man for miles around, so I told myself what I felt for you was a passing
fancy, a moment’s lust, until I returned to Llanpowell last year and saw you in the hall. It was like a lock had broken and a door opened wide, showing me a truth that I’d ignored.”

  As he spoke, a vision of the future opened before her, of life with Trefor. But not as his wife. His mistress. Even if he loved her—and she didn’t doubt his sincerity—what kind of future would that give her? Her reputation ruined, she would be the subject of gossip and speculation, little better than a whore.

  And she was not the only one who would suffer. “What of Isabelle?” she asked, thinking of his bride’s potential anguish. “What of her pain when she knows that you come to me in the night? That I am taking her husband from her?”

  Trefor got to his feet and although his eyes burned with anguish, he said, “I should have known you wouldn’t agree. That if I am weak and selfish, you wouldn’t be. So forget what I said here today. I’ll take you back to Llanpowell and that will be the end of it.”

  The end of it? As long as he lived, she would love him and want to be with him.

  To give in to her feelings was wrong. A sin. But to lose him would be a torment she didn’t think she could endure, not when he stood before her so vulnerable and alone, asking her to love him.

  She would grasp what happiness she could with him and be thankful.

  Her decision made, she put her hands on his powerful forearms and regarded him steadily. “I’ve tried to stop loving you, Trefor, but I can’t. If the only way I can be with you is as your mistress, even if that is only for a month or a year, I will do it. Because I love you, Trefor, with all my heart. I’ll love you until I die.”

  “Oh, Bron, Bron!” he whispered before he pulled her to him and captured her lips with unrestrained passion.

  Leaning into him, she surrendered to her desire and let herself be swept along on a rising tide of longing.

  With eager excitement she gripped his strong arms and slid her lips over his, parting hers the moment his tongue touched them. Their kiss deepening, he held her close as they sank onto their knees. Soon she was on her back and he was above her, their bed the grassy bank, their roof the canopy of branches, the stream providing music as he whispered her name. He brushed soft kisses over her face and untied her cloak. The air was cool, but his body and her growing need provided ample heat.

  Her excitement growing as he kneaded her breast, she grabbed at his tunic. “Take this off,” she ordered breathlessly.

  He did more than obey, tearing off his shirt and tunic together and tossing them so far aside they almost went in the river.

  Their desire surged anew as he bent his head to capture her mouth with his. Soon she, too, was half-naked, her body against his, his bare chest against her breasts.

  She put her leg over his, bringing her hips against him. Gasping, craving, she reached for the drawstring of his breeches as his hand cupped and fondled her naked breast.

  His breathing as ragged as her own, he bent to suck her hardened nipple into his warm, moist mouth. Guttural sounds of primitive need broke from her throat as she worked his breeches lower, too impatient to untie the knot. Then he was in her hand, hard and strong, as ready as she for what must happen next.

  As she arched, willing and eager, he shoved her skirts up out of the way and positioned himself. He kissed her deeply, then pushed inside.

  She bucked with the sudden pain, a cry escaping her lips as the flesh tore.

  Trefor stopped and raised his head, watching her as he thrust slowly and gently once more.

  That hurt a little, but not enough that she wanted him to stop. Not now. Not after she had made her pledge and revealed how much she wanted him. Not since he had told her that he loved her and she had seen the truth of it in his remarkable eyes. “Don’t stop, Trefor,” she whispered. “I want you.”

  “As I want you. I need you, Bron. I’ll always need you,” he vowed as he rocked forward.

  The weight of his body between her legs was as exciting as the touch of his hands, the stroke of his fingertips, the caress of his palms. He did all that and more, kissing and licking, sucking and teasing, until she forgot the pain and was aware only of the growing tension in her body and the need for something…more.

  As if he were an instrument she must play to reach that end, she explored his body, running her hands over his hot flesh, rising to meet him as he surged forward. She gasped for breath, panting his name, begging him to keep going, not to stop, that he felt so good, so right—and then the tension broke like a dry branch between two strong hands. With a feral growl, she arched upward, her whole body throbbing, clutching his arms, her legs twisting and her toes curling. At the same time, he groaned loud in her ear, like a beast calling to its mate as he bucked and jerked and held her close until, as if completely exhausted, he laid his head upon her breasts.

  “God’s blood,” he panted, “I think you almost killed me, Bron.”

  She moved slightly as an ache began between her legs. “I think I’m the wounded one, my lord.”

  “God, yes,” he muttered as he withdrew and stood up, pulling his breeches back into place. “Don’t move,” he commanded as she began to sit up, looking down at her rumpled skirts and the blood upon her thighs.

  “What are you doing?” she asked as he crouched at the stream, his shirt bunched in his hands.

  “Getting something to wash with,” he said, coming back and handing it to her.

  “But your shirt…”

  “The blood will come out in the cold water,” he said as he picked up his tunic. “Wash and then we should go home.”

  Home. Pontyrmwr, not Llanpowell. Home with him, her lover. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Trefor, Bron. Please don’t call me my lord when we’re alone.”

  “Aye, my…Yes, Trefor,” she replied as she wiped away the evidence of their lovemaking and the loss of her virginity.

  “I’ll rinse my shirt, then carry you back to Pontyrmwr.”

  She regarded him quizzically as she tied her bodice closed. “What about the horses?”

  “I don’t mean we’ll go on foot,” he said with a smile. “I’ll carry you on my lap.”

  “That will cause a sensation when we’re seen.” And everyone would guess they were lovers.

  But that was a part of the choice she’d made, and she must accept the loss of her good name as the cost of her happiness.

  Trefor’s dark brows drew together as he put on his damp shirt. “Would you rather I fetched a wagon? I could say your horse stumbled and you fell.”

  Another decision, but this one was not nearly so difficult. “No point to tell lies. They’ll find out I’m your lover soon enough, anyway. This was my choice, Trefor. Never forget that. Any trouble that comes to me afterward, I asked for, and I accept, because I love you.”

  “You’re a brave woman, Bron, as well as an honest, practical one.”

  No, she wasn’t brave, she thought as he went to get the horses. She dreaded the whispers and gossip, and what might happen if he ever tired of her. She wasn’t honest, or she would tell him that. And if she were practical, she would ask him how he intended to provide for her.

  Instead, she accepted the way it must be, because it was that, or lose the man she loved.

  Nearly a fortnight later, Trefor came up behind Bron as she stood looking out the window of his bedchamber toward the village that was quickly growing around the castle. Since he’d made peace with his brother and rid his garrison of mercenaries, word was spreading that Trefor ap Gruffydd was likely to be as just and generous a lord as Madoc.

  Trefor put his arms around Bron and drew her to him, enfolding her in his bedrobe against his naked body. “What are you thinking about, love of my life?”

  “That this may be the last night I’ll spend in your bed with you,” she replied, remembering Trefor on his back, his hair spread upon the pillow as she straddled him, rising and falling in the throes of lovemaking.

  Afterward she had brushed a lock of hair from his forehead while he ca
lled her his beloved and promised she would always be so. He had kissed and caressed her until they were both aroused and ready to make love again. So they had, starting with tender kisses, then ending with fiery passion.

  He nodded toward a building erected beyond the moat and the new outer wall. “Aye, but there is your house, nearly all finished. I’ll always take care of you, Bron, and see that you lack for nothing. And even when the wall’s complete, I’ll be able to see your bedchamber window from here. If you put a candle there, it will be like a star leading me to my beloved.”

  If so, was she not stealing something precious from his bride? her conscience chided again. How could Isabelle ever earn her husband’s devotion if he continued to visit his mistress?

  Hot tears of shame and remorse and sorrow stung Bron’s eyes, but she blinked them back so Trefor wouldn’t see. She had come back here of her own free will, and of her own free will, she had accepted the price.

  Trefor turned her toward him, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t, look up into his eyes.

  “I wish that I had been a better, wiser man, Bron,” he said softly. “That I had taken better care of my estate instead of draining the coffers to hire men to fight. Then I would be free to marry you.”

  She put her fingertips on his lips to silence him. “I was a servant in your brother’s household, so you couldn’t marry me anyway.”

  Trefor looked about to protest when a noise from the gates caught their attention. A wagon with a painted canvas covering pulled by a pair of finely matched horses had entered through the thick wooden gates, with an armed escort in front. A second wagon, likewise heavily laden and covered, and with six more guards, followed.

  A lump grew in Bron’s throat, for she knew who this must be.

  Trefor cursed softly. “My bride and her father are early. I have to go greet them,” he said as he started to dress.

  Of course he must. And she must leave the castle. “I’ll go to the house and wait for you there.”