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 thought 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.”

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.”

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 called 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.”

“I’ll come to you as soon as I can,” he vowed as he pulled on his boots.

As soon as he could. Whenever he could slip away.

She surreptitiously swiped at the tear that fell upon her cheek before he left the room.

And her.

Chapter Six

As Bron slipped into the crowded hall, it seemed she was the only person in Pontyrmwr who had no desire to see Trefor’s bride. Half the garrison and every servant was there, waiting with eager anticipation.

“Bron!” Owain called out, excited and perhaps a little fearful, as he ran up to her and clutched her hand. “Did you see the wagons, Bron? They’ve got pictures on them!”

“Yes, I saw the wagons,” she replied. “Now I’ve got to get to the—”

Too late.

The hall door opened and Trefor entered with a young woman whose head came barely to his shoulder. She wore a cloak of soft blue wool, the hood edged with fox fur.

Isabelle was beautiful, fair, and with eyes nearly as blue as Trefor’s. Her delicate eyebrows arched over a fine nose above full, heart-shaped lips.

She was even lovelier and more graceful than Gwendolyn had been.

Yet for all her beauty, Isabelle carried herself demurely, her eyes lowered, her expression revealing nothing.

How could Trefor not fall in love with such a woman, unless she was a shrew? God forgive her, surely it was wrong to pray that Isabelle was a harridan!

Behind them came a man who must be Isabelle’s father, a well-dressed, narrow-faced, hawk-nosed fellow who looked about him as if gauging the worth of the hall, the furnishings and everything else, including the servants. When his sharp brown eyes encountered Bron, she shrank back, for the man’s calculating gaze chilled her to the bone.

Trefor led the bride and her father to the dais and gestured for his guests to sit in the new, richly carved oak chairs with silk cushions. Then he spotted Bron and Owain.

Bron wished she could vanish like some sort of fairy. She could not, of course. Not then, and not when his bride and her father followed Trefor’s gaze.

“I’d like you to meet my son,” Trefor said. “Owain, come and greet our guests.”

The lad didn’t move.

“Go on and greet them properly,” Bron prompted, pushing him gently forward as she sidled toward the kitchen.

Owain grabbed her hand. “I don’t like that man!”

Neither did she, but there was nothing else to be done. “Your father has called you, Owain. Go and greet his guests as you’ve been taught.”

“No!” he cried. “I won’t!”

Never had the boy’s stubbornness been more unwelcome. “Please, Owain,” she urged as Trefor’s face reddened, the bride’s father frowned, and the bride…She didn’t know what the bride was doing, because she didn’t look. “Owain, you’re disgracing your father, as well as yourself!”

The little boy’s defiance fled, replaced by dread as his lower lip trembled.

“Do you want me to go with you?” she offered, her own dismay less important than easing his fear.

He nodded, and together they walked to the dais, although Bron felt as if she was walking to a pillory.

“This is my son, Owain ap Trefor ap Gruffydd,” Trefor said when they reached the dais.

Gripping Bron’s hand so hard, it hurt, Owain managed a bow.

“Owain, this is Isabelle and her father, Sessylt ap Balawn.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Owain,” Isabelle said, her voice soft and sweet. “You are as handsome as your father.”

Not a harridan, it seemed—not yet, anyway.

“Can I go now, Da?” Owain asked.

“Aye, you can go, and Bron, too.”

Trefor sounded cold and distant, as if they’d never met. Bron told herself that was necessary so that his bride wouldn’t immediately realize what Bron was to him. Nevertheless, it seemed her heart was breaking anew as she led his son away.

Two days later Bron sat alone in the lower level of her house. It had two rooms, one the kitchen, the other for everything else. The second level was a single chamber, with a comfortable bed, washstand and a wooden chest for her clothes.

Trefor had not been here since Isabelle had arrived.

Bron wondered if he was ashamed of taking her to his bed, or if seeing Isabelle again had awakened a desire for his bride, a desire that was free of guilt and shame.

Maybe he was simply too busy with the wedding arrangements to come to her.

Maybe the bride had heard about his mistress and raised such an uproar he had decided to stay away. He might always find it easier to stay away, and perhaps his ardor would cool and his love would die and a knock would sound on the door, heralding the arrival of the bailiff or a soldier or servant telling her she had to leave the house and even the village…

A brisk rap on the door startled her out of her anxious reverie.

Trying to regain her calm and set aside her worst imaginings, Bron went to open it.

After all, she told herself, it might only be the serving girl Trefor had sent earlier, although Bron had told her to go back to the castle. Her house was not so large or her days so busy that she needed—or wanted—a servant.

It wasn’t the bailiff or a soldier or a serving wench. Trefor himself stood on the threshold, Owain beside him.

Relief poured through her. Trefor might come himself to send her away, but he surely wouldn’t bring Owain if that was his purpose.

“Come in, my lord,” she said, opening the door wider.

As he did, she noticed the dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept any better than she. Meanwhile Owain ran past her, then stood looking about him with satisfaction, as if he’d been the one to give her the house. “You have all this to yourself, Bron!”

“Yes,” she said with a smile, although she was far from happy.

“You have no fire,” Trefor noted. “Do you need wood?”

“I have plenty, thanks to you,” she replied. “I felt no need of one. May I ask what brings you and your son here today, my lord?”

“I wanted to see your house, Bron,” Owain replied for him.

“I think he feared you were living in a hovel,” Trefor said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Well, Owain, as you can see, I’m quite comfortable.”

“Can I go up the stairs? Da says you can see his solar from your window.”

“You may,” she answered.

With a joyful whoop, Owain ran to the stairs and climbed out of sight, while Bron turned toward his father.

In less than the time it took to draw breath, he gathered her in his arms and captured her lips with his.

“Oh, Bron, it’s seemed forever!” he murmured as he rained more kisses upon her upturned face.

“For me, too,” she whispered as she held him tightly. “I’ve missed you!”

“You were right, Da!” Owain exclaimed.

They jumped apart as the boy came clattering down the steps.

“Da says I can visit you whenever I like,” he announced when he reached the ground floor, as delighted as if he’d just discovered gold.

“As long as that’s all right with Bron,” his father added.

“I’ll be delighted to see you whenever you can visit,” she assured Owain, and his father, too.

“Good!” Owain cried happily. Then his brow furrowed. “What’s a whore, Da? That’s what Isabelle’s father called Bron.”

Hot shame rushed through Bron. To think that Owain had to hear…

“When?” Trefor demanded.

Owain’s face filled with confusion. “Yesterday, when you were in the stables. Isabelle was crying and her father told her not to, that Bron was just a whore and she was going to be a lady.” He gave Bron a hopeful grin. “Whatever it is, I’m sure you’re the best in Pontyrmwr, Bron.”

Afraid he might see that his words upset her, she turned away.

“To call Bron a whore is not a compliment, my son,” Trefor said sternly. “Never call her that again.”

Her emotions once more under control, Bron faced the blushing lad again. “It’s all right, Owain,” she assured him, and his father, too. After all, she was going to have to get used to that, and more, in the days to come.

As she’d hoped, her comforting words erased the boy’s embarrassment.

“I think Da should marry you,” he declared. “He’s been a lot happier since you came to Pontyrmwr. She doesn’t make him happy. He hasn’t smiled once since she came and you went away. Isabelle doesn’t want to marry him, either, or why would she be crying?”

Why, indeed? Bron wondered. Her hope struggled to escape the cage she kept it in, but if Isabelle didn’t want to marry Trefor, he should marry another rich heiress or noblewoman.

“I think we’ve stayed long enough,” Trefor announced. “Say goodbye to Bron, then wait for me outside, Owain.”

“But I don’t want—”

The lad fell silent when his father raised a brow, then bid Bron a subdued farewell.

She tried to raise his spirits, and her own, by smiling. “Visit again soon, Owain. I’ll always be happy to see you.”

Owain nodded, then marched to the door and went outside without another word of complaint.

“There was a time, not so long ago, when he never would have gone so obediently,” Trefor said as he reached for her again. “I’m indebted to you for that.”

She nestled against him, glad he was grateful, but thinking of the morrow. Soon, he would belong to another. If she was strong, if she was good and unselfish, she would not come between him and his bride.

“I’ll return tonight,” he promised.

Once before he had spent the eve of his wedding with a woman not his betrothed, and the result had been disaster.

What kind of marriage, what chance for happiness, could he hope to have if she was forever between him and his bride?

“No, not tonight,” she said, drawing back a little. “You should rest, for there will be much celebrating and many guests tomorrow. You’ll be worn-out just trying to keep your uncle Lloyd from drinking too much.”

Trefor ran a fingertip along her cheek. “I thought you missed me,” he said with a frown as he followed the fingertip with the lightest brush of his lips.

“I did…I do.” She sighed, fighting not to give in to the need and desire his touch inspired. To be strong and do what she must, for his sake and his bride’s. “But you’ll be tired and distracted tonight. I’m selfish enough to want to wait until your guests have gone and we can have more time.”

Even as she spoke, she realized her resolve might not hold if he kissed her.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said with a sigh. “Perhaps it would be best if I waited until things were…calmer.”

“Yes, exactly,” she agreed, moving away from him before she begged him to stay and make love to her.

“I’ll be here waiting,” she lied.

Chapter Seven

As dawn broke over the rugged hills to the east, Bron waited by the upper window of the house. As soon as the villagers had gone to the castle to join in the celebration of Trefor’s wedding, she would take the leather pouch that contained her clothes and some food and leave.

No one would expect her to be at the castle for the marriage ceremony or the celebration afterward, not even Lady Roslynn or Lord Madoc. Given the speed with which gossip traveled, they had probably already heard that she had become Trefor’s lover.

That also meant nobody would expect her back at Llanpowell, either. By the time anybody realized she had left Pontyrmwr for some unknown destination, she would be many miles away. Later, she would send word to her brothers that she was alive and well—provided she was alive and well.

The sound of running feet interrupted her restless reverie then the door below crashed open as if a boulder had smashed into it.

“Bron!” Trefor shouted. “Bron!”

What was he doing here, and on his wedding day?

Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, Bron rushed to the stairs.

“Is Owain here?” he demanded the moment he saw her, his expression more frantic than she would ever have thought possible.

He was clean-shaven and dressed in his wedding finery—dark woolen tunic, black breeches and best boots, the belt around his waist a soft, supple leather studded with bronze.

But his eyes were like those of a man being tortured.

“I’ve not seen him since you—”

“He’s gone and his bed not slept in,” Trefor said as he ran an anxious hand through his disheveled hair. “Everybody assumed he’d just gone to bed and I…I was too lost in my own thoughts to bid him good-night.

“Oh, Bron, where would he go? And at such a time? Why didn’t I speak to him last night? I knew he was upset about the marriage, but again I was too selfish, too full of self-pity.”

This was no time for recriminations, either for him or for her. “Perhaps he found the hall too noisy and went to sleep somewhere else?” she suggested.

“I’ve had the whole castle searched from top to bottom—every storeroom, every cupboard, every shelf. I even—God help me—ordered my men to drag the well. And then I wondered if he had come here.”

“I wish he had,” she fervently replied, her fear growing as she thought of Owain wandering alone across the countryside. There were bogs nearby, as well as the mill pond, and the moon had been hidden by clouds most of the night, as she well knew.

“Maybe he thought to go to Llanpowell?” she offered.

“I thought of that, too, and sent a patrol as we searched the castle. They’ve just returned. They found no sign of him. I sent them back out to look again and search the verges and the wood, too, in case Owain hid from them. I’ve sent word to the miller to search the mill and…and I was thinking we should…Oh, God, Bron,” he groaned, “drag the mill pond, too.”

The lord of Pontyrmwr, warrior and descendant of warriors, sank to his knees and buried his head in his hands. “Oh, God, Bron, I don’t know what else to do!”

She knelt in front of the man she loved and took his face gently between her palms. “He’s just gone off somewhere to think or sulk, or both.” She managed a tremulous smile. “Didn’t you used to do the same when you were upset?”

“Did I?” he whispered, his expression confused, as if he couldn’t think clearly, and perhaps, at that moment, he couldn’t.

“Aye, you did. Go back to the castle, Trefor, and organize more search parties. I’ll look for him, too.”

It might hurt Trefor, but she would say it nonetheless. “If he’s upset about the marriage, he might answer my calls, if not yours or those of your men.”

Trefor nodded and got to his feet. “Aye,” he said, once more the commander, although the anguish of the worried father remained in his eyes.

“Go you, then, Trefor, and so will I, and I’ll pray we find him soon.”

“Aye,” he whispered before he turned on his heel and left her.

After he was gone, Bron closed her eyes, the better to put herself in Owain’s place and consider where he might go that no one else had thought to look. If he was upset, distraught and dismayed by Trefor’s marriage, who might he seek, if not her?

Madoc, the man he’d believed was his father until less than a year ago? If so, Trefor’s men would have found him already.

Where else? A church for sanctuary? Not Owain. He’d once confessed he found priests a frightening lot, “like crows just waiting for me to do something wrong,” he’d said.

If only Elidan and Idwal were here! They might know. His foster parents were due back any day. What if he had gone to meet them? Had Trefor considered that possibility?

The Caerpowys road led in the opposite direction from Llanpowell and skirted a treacherous bog where Madoc had nearly drowned when he was a boy.

If that was the way he’d gone, there was no time to lose!

Bron ran out of her house and immediately spotted one of Trefor’s men on horseback.

“Gwilliam!” she called. “Stop!”

The pockmarked soldier reined in, regarding her with anxious annoyance. “Tell Trefor I think Owain may have gone toward Caerpowys to meet Elidan and Idwal.”

Gwilliam’s eyes widened with sudden hope. “Aye, that’s true, he might. He was saying the other day that he wanted to tell them about…” Gwilliam flushed and looked away. “Things.”

“Tell Trefor at once. I’ll head that way now.”

With a nod, Gwilliam punched his heels into his horse’s sides. As he galloped toward the castle, Bron wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and hurried toward the Caerpowys road.

And the bog beside it.

“Owain!”

Cupping her mouth, her voice hoarse from shouting, her feet wet, Bron called again. She had come as far from Pontyrmwr as a little boy’s legs might take him, but she had seen no sign of Trefor’s son, and her hope that this had been his choice was fading.

“Owain!” she tried again, wondering if she should turn back, or stop and wait for men from the castle to take up the search.

“Bron!”

The voice was faint and weary, so weak she almost doubted that she’d heard it. Nevertheless, hope revived within her and she shouted Owain’s name again, then strained to listen as she stood motionless on the narrow path.

“Here, Bron!”

It was Owain!

“Oh, thank God, thank God!” Bron murmured, tears of relief falling down her cheeks as she scanned the bumpy, rocky terrain. A few dead and straggly trees broke the monotony and reminded her that this ground was unhealthy and dangerous. “Shout again, Owain!”

“Bron, I’m stuck!”

At last she saw something moving, a stick waving feebly behind a rock some twenty yards away and ten from the path. He must have wandered off the path in the dark. “I’m coming, Owain!”

She went as close as she could on the path, then gingerly, carefully, began to pick her way closer to the boulder.

“I’m so c-cold, Bron!”

“I’ll have you warm soon,” she promised, fighting the urge to hurry, for that could be fatal. She could get stuck herself, and sucked under the muck and water if she put her foot wrong.

“I’m hungry, too.”

“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

Her MySpace page:
www.myspace.com/margaretmoorewriter

Twitter:
www.twitter.com/WriterMargMoore

Her Newsletter:
http://www.margaretmoore.com/draw.html

Her Story Seedlings blog:
http://storyseedlings.blogspot.com

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

THE WARRIOR’S FORBIDDEN VIRGIN by Michelle Willingham

AT THE DUKE’S SERVICE by Carole Mortimer

HIS SILKEN SEDUCTION by Joanna Maitland

A NIGHT FOR HER PLEASURE by Terri Brisbin

DISROBED AND DISHONORED by Louise Allen

THE UNLACING OF MISS LEIGH by Diane Gaston

A NIGHT OF WICKED DELIGHT by Joanne Rock

PLEASURED BY THE ENGLISH SPY by Bronwyn Scott

THE RAKE’S INTIMATE ENCOUNTER by Ann Lethbridge

NOTORIOUS LORD, COMPROMISED MISS by Annie Burrows

THE UNMASKING OF LADY LOVELESS by Nicola Cornick

LIBERTINE LORD, PICKPOCKET MISS by Bronwyn Scott

THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE by Margaret Moore

SHIPWRECKED AND SEDUCED by Amanda McCabe

Craving something a little longer? Find more historical romantic adventure from Harlequin Historical at www.eHarlequin.com or your local bookstore.

Interested in writing for Harlequin Historical UNDONE? Send your submission to undone@harlequin.ca.

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

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text October be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

www.eHarlequin.com

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 thought 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.”

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.”

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 called 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.”

“I’ll come to you as soon as I can,” he vowed as he pulled on his boots.

As soon as he could. Whenever he could slip away.

She surreptitiously swiped at the tear that fell upon her cheek before he left the room.

And her.

Chapter Six

As Bron slipped into the crowded hall, it seemed she was the only person in Pontyrmwr who had no desire to see Trefor’s bride. Half the garrison and every servant was there, waiting with eager anticipation.

“Bron!” Owain called out, excited and perhaps a little fearful, as he ran up to her and clutched her hand. “Did you see the wagons, Bron? They’ve got pictures on them!”

“Yes, I saw the wagons,” she replied. “Now I’ve got to get to the—”

Too late.

The hall door opened and Trefor entered with a young woman whose head came barely to his shoulder. She wore a cloak of soft blue wool, the hood edged with fox fur.

Isabelle was beautiful, fair, and with eyes nearly as blue as Trefor’s. Her delicate eyebrows arched over a fine nose above full, heart-shaped lips.

She was even lovelier and more graceful than Gwendolyn had been.

Yet for all her beauty, Isabelle carried herself demurely, her eyes lowered, her expression revealing nothing.

How could Trefor not fall in love with such a woman, unless she was a shrew? God forgive her, surely it was wrong to pray that Isabelle was a harridan!

Behind them came a man who must be Isabelle’s father, a well-dressed, narrow-faced, hawk-nosed fellow who looked about him as if gauging the worth of the hall, the furnishings and everything else, including the servants. When his sharp brown eyes encountered Bron, she shrank back, for the man’s calculating gaze chilled her to the bone.

Trefor led the bride and her father to the dais and gestured for his guests to sit in the new, richly carved oak chairs with silk cushions. Then he spotted Bron and Owain.

Bron wished she could vanish like some sort of fairy. She could not, of course. Not then, and not when his bride and her father followed Trefor’s gaze.

“I’d like you to meet my son,” Trefor said. “Owain, come and greet our guests.”

The lad didn’t move.

“Go on and greet them properly,” Bron prompted, pushing him gently forward as she sidled toward the kitchen.

Owain grabbed her hand. “I don’t like that man!”

Neither did she, but there was nothing else to be done. “Your father has called you, Owain. Go and greet his guests as you’ve been taught.”

“No!” he cried. “I won’t!”

Never had the boy’s stubbornness been more unwelcome. “Please, Owain,” she urged as Trefor’s face reddened, the bride’s father frowned, and the bride…She didn’t know what the bride was doing, because she didn’t look. “Owain, you’re disgracing your father, as well as yourself!”

The little boy’s defiance fled, replaced by dread as his lower lip trembled.

“Do you want me to go with you?” she offered, her own dismay less important than easing his fear.

He nodded, and together they walked to the dais, although Bron felt as if she was walking to a pillory.

“This is my son, Owain ap Trefor ap Gruffydd,” Trefor said when they reached the dais.

Gripping Bron’s hand so hard, it hurt, Owain managed a bow.

“Owain, this is Isabelle and her father, Sessylt ap Balawn.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Owain,” Isabelle said, her voice soft and sweet. “You are as handsome as your father.”

Not a harridan, it seemed—not yet, anyway.

“Can I go now, Da?” Owain asked.

“Aye, you can go, and Bron, too.”

Trefor sounded cold and distant, as if they’d never met. Bron told herself that was necessary so that his bride wouldn’t immediately realize what Bron was to him. Nevertheless, it seemed her heart was breaking anew as she led his son away.

Two days later Bron sat alone in the lower level of her house. It had two rooms, one the kitchen, the other for everything else. The second level was a single chamber, with a comfortable bed, washstand and a wooden chest for her clothes.

Trefor had not been here since Isabelle had arrived.

Bron wondered if he was ashamed of taking her to his bed, or if seeing Isabelle again had awakened a desire for his bride, a desire that was free of guilt and shame.

Maybe he was simply too busy with the wedding arrangements to come to her.

Maybe the bride had heard about his mistress and raised such an uproar he had decided to stay away. He might always find it easier to stay away, and perhaps his ardor would cool and his love would die and a knock would sound on the door, heralding the arrival of the bailiff or a soldier or servant telling her she had to leave the house and even the village…

A brisk rap on the door startled her out of her anxious reverie.

Trying to regain her calm and set aside her worst imaginings, Bron went to open it.

After all, she told herself, it might only be the serving girl Trefor had sent earlier, although Bron had told her to go back to the castle. Her house was not so large or her days so busy that she needed—or wanted—a servant.

It wasn’t the bailiff or a soldier or a serving wench. Trefor himself stood on the threshold, Owain beside him.

Relief poured through her. Trefor might come himself to send her away, but he surely wouldn’t bring Owain if that was his purpose.

“Come in, my lord,” she said, opening the door wider.

As he did, she noticed the dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept any better than she. Meanwhile Owain ran past her, then stood looking about him with satisfaction, as if he’d been the one to give her the house. “You have all this to yourself, Bron!”

“Yes,” she said with a smile, although she was far from happy.

“You have no fire,” Trefor noted. “Do you need wood?”

“I have plenty, thanks to you,” she replied. “I felt no need of one. May I ask what brings you and your son here today, my lord?”

“I wanted to see your house, Bron,” Owain replied for him.

“I think he feared you were living in a hovel,” Trefor said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Well, Owain, as you can see, I’m quite comfortable.”

“Can I go up the stairs? Da says you can see his solar from your window.”

“You may,” she answered.

With a joyful whoop, Owain ran to the stairs and climbed out of sight, while Bron turned toward his father.

In less than the time it took to draw breath, he gathered her in his arms and captured her lips with his.

“Oh, Bron, it’s seemed forever!” he murmured as he rained more kisses upon her upturned face.

“For me, too,” she whispered as she held him tightly. “I’ve missed you!”

“You were right, Da!” Owain exclaimed.

They jumped apart as the boy came clattering down the steps.

“Da says I can visit you whenever I like,” he announced when he reached the ground floor, as delighted as if he’d just discovered gold.

“As long as that’s all right with Bron,” his father added.

“I’ll be delighted to see you whenever you can visit,” she assured Owain, and his father, too.

“Good!” Owain cried happily. Then his brow furrowed. “What’s a whore, Da? That’s what Isabelle’s father called Bron.”

Hot shame rushed through Bron. To think that Owain had to hear…

“When?” Trefor demanded.

Owain’s face filled with confusion. “Yesterday, when you were in the stables. Isabelle was crying and her father told her not to, that Bron was just a whore and she was going to be a lady.” He gave Bron a hopeful grin. “Whatever it is, I’m sure you’re the best in Pontyrmwr, Bron.”

Afraid he might see that his words upset her, she turned away.

“To call Bron a whore is not a compliment, my son,” Trefor said sternly. “Never call her that again.”

Her emotions once more under control, Bron faced the blushing lad again. “It’s all right, Owain,” she assured him, and his father, too. After all, she was going to have to get used to that, and more, in the days to come.

As she’d hoped, her comforting words erased the boy’s embarrassment.

“I think Da should marry you,” he declared. “He’s been a lot happier since you came to Pontyrmwr. She doesn’t make him happy. He hasn’t smiled once since she came and you went away. Isabelle doesn’t want to marry him, either, or why would she be crying?”

Why, indeed? Bron wondered. Her hope struggled to escape the cage she kept it in, but if Isabelle didn’t want to marry Trefor, he should marry another rich heiress or noblewoman.

“I think we’ve stayed long enough,” Trefor announced. “Say goodbye to Bron, then wait for me outside, Owain.”

“But I don’t want—”

The lad fell silent when his father raised a brow, then bid Bron a subdued farewell.

She tried to raise his spirits, and her own, by smiling. “Visit again soon, Owain. I’ll always be happy to see you.”

Owain nodded, then marched to the door and went outside without another word of complaint.

“There was a time, not so long ago, when he never would have gone so obediently,” Trefor said as he reached for her again. “I’m indebted to you for that.”

She nestled against him, glad he was grateful, but thinking of the morrow. Soon, he would belong to another. If she was strong, if she was good and unselfish, she would not come between him and his bride.

“I’ll return tonight,” he promised.

Once before he had spent the eve of his wedding with a woman not his betrothed, and the result had been disaster.

What kind of marriage, what chance for happiness, could he hope to have if she was forever between him and his bride?

“No, not tonight,” she said, drawing back a little. “You should rest, for there will be much celebrating and many guests tomorrow. You’ll be worn-out just trying to keep your uncle Lloyd from drinking too much.”

Trefor ran a fingertip along her cheek. “I thought you missed me,” he said with a frown as he followed the fingertip with the lightest brush of his lips.

“I did…I do.” She sighed, fighting not to give in to the need and desire his touch inspired. To be strong and do what she must, for his sake and his bride’s. “But you’ll be tired and distracted tonight. I’m selfish enough to want to wait until your guests have gone and we can have more time.”

Even as she spoke, she realized her resolve might not hold if he kissed her.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said with a sigh. “Perhaps it would be best if I waited until things were…calmer.”

“Yes, exactly,” she agreed, moving away from him before she begged him to stay and make love to her.

“I’ll be here waiting,” she lied.

Chapter Seven

As dawn broke over the rugged hills to the east, Bron waited by the upper window of the house. As soon as the villagers had gone to the castle to join in the celebration of Trefor’s wedding, she would take the leather pouch that contained her clothes and some food and leave.

No one would expect her to be at the castle for the marriage ceremony or the celebration afterward, not even Lady Roslynn or Lord Madoc. Given the speed with which gossip traveled, they had probably already heard that she had become Trefor’s lover.

That also meant nobody would expect her back at Llanpowell, either. By the time anybody realized she had left Pontyrmwr for some unknown destination, she would be many miles away. Later, she would send word to her brothers that she was alive and well—provided she was alive and well.

The sound of running feet interrupted her restless reverie then the door below crashed open as if a boulder had smashed into it.

“Bron!” Trefor shouted. “Bron!”

What was he doing here, and on his wedding day?

Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, Bron rushed to the stairs.

“Is Owain here?” he demanded the moment he saw her, his expression more frantic than she would ever have thought possible.

He was clean-shaven and dressed in his wedding finery—dark woolen tunic, black breeches and best boots, the belt around his waist a soft, supple leather studded with bronze.

But his eyes were like those of a man being tortured.

“I’ve not seen him since you—”

“He’s gone and his bed not slept in,” Trefor said as he ran an anxious hand through his disheveled hair. “Everybody assumed he’d just gone to bed and I…I was too lost in my own thoughts to bid him good-night.

“Oh, Bron, where would he go? And at such a time? Why didn’t I speak to him last night? I knew he was upset about the marriage, but again I was too selfish, too full of self-pity.”

This was no time for recriminations, either for him or for her. “Perhaps he found the hall too noisy and went to sleep somewhere else?” she suggested.

“I’ve had the whole castle searched from top to bottom—every storeroom, every cupboard, every shelf. I even—God help me—ordered my men to drag the well. And then I wondered if he had come here.”

“I wish he had,” she fervently replied, her fear growing as she thought of Owain wandering alone across the countryside. There were bogs nearby, as well as the mill pond, and the moon had been hidden by clouds most of the night, as she well knew.

“Maybe he thought to go to Llanpowell?” she offered.

“I thought of that, too, and sent a patrol as we searched the castle. They’ve just returned. They found no sign of him. I sent them back out to look again and search the verges and the wood, too, in case Owain hid from them. I’ve sent word to the miller to search the mill and…and I was thinking we should…Oh, God, Bron,” he groaned, “drag the mill pond, too.”

The lord of Pontyrmwr, warrior and descendant of warriors, sank to his knees and buried his head in his hands. “Oh, God, Bron, I don’t know what else to do!”

She knelt in front of the man she loved and took his face gently between her palms. “He’s just gone off somewhere to think or sulk, or both.” She managed a tremulous smile. “Didn’t you used to do the same when you were upset?”

“Did I?” he whispered, his expression confused, as if he couldn’t think clearly, and perhaps, at that moment, he couldn’t.

“Aye, you did. Go back to the castle, Trefor, and organize more search parties. I’ll look for him, too.”

It might hurt Trefor, but she would say it nonetheless. “If he’s upset about the marriage, he might answer my calls, if not yours or those of your men.”

Trefor nodded and got to his feet. “Aye,” he said, once more the commander, although the anguish of the worried father remained in his eyes.

“Go you, then, Trefor, and so will I, and I’ll pray we find him soon.”

“Aye,” he whispered before he turned on his heel and left her.

After he was gone, Bron closed her eyes, the better to put herself in Owain’s place and consider where he might go that no one else had thought to look. If he was upset, distraught and dismayed by Trefor’s marriage, who might he seek, if not her?

Madoc, the man he’d believed was his father until less than a year ago? If so, Trefor’s men would have found him already.

Where else? A church for sanctuary? Not Owain. He’d once confessed he found priests a frightening lot, “like crows just waiting for me to do something wrong,” he’d said.

If only Elidan and Idwal were here! They might know. His foster parents were due back any day. What if he had gone to meet them? Had Trefor considered that possibility?

The Caerpowys road led in the opposite direction from Llanpowell and skirted a treacherous bog where Madoc had nearly drowned when he was a boy.

If that was the way he’d gone, there was no time to lose!

Bron ran out of her house and immediately spotted one of Trefor’s men on horseback.

“Gwilliam!” she called. “Stop!”

The pockmarked soldier reined in, regarding her with anxious annoyance. “Tell Trefor I think Owain may have gone toward Caerpowys to meet Elidan and Idwal.”

Gwilliam’s eyes widened with sudden hope. “Aye, that’s true, he might. He was saying the other day that he wanted to tell them about…” Gwilliam flushed and looked away. “Things.”

“Tell Trefor at once. I’ll head that way now.”

With a nod, Gwilliam punched his heels into his horse’s sides. As he galloped toward the castle, Bron wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and hurried toward the Caerpowys road.

And the bog beside it.

“Owain!”

Cupping her mouth, her voice hoarse from shouting, her feet wet, Bron called again. She had come as far from Pontyrmwr as a little boy’s legs might take him, but she had seen no sign of Trefor’s son, and her hope that this had been his choice was fading.

“Owain!” she tried again, wondering if she should turn back, or stop and wait for men from the castle to take up the search.

“Bron!”

The voice was faint and weary, so weak she almost doubted that she’d heard it. Nevertheless, hope revived within her and she shouted Owain’s name again, then strained to listen as she stood motionless on the narrow path.

“Here, Bron!”

It was Owain!

“Oh, thank God, thank God!” Bron murmured, tears of relief falling down her cheeks as she scanned the bumpy, rocky terrain. A few dead and straggly trees broke the monotony and reminded her that this ground was unhealthy and dangerous. “Shout again, Owain!”

“Bron, I’m stuck!”

At last she saw something moving, a stick waving feebly behind a rock some twenty yards away and ten from the path. He must have wandered off the path in the dark. “I’m coming, Owain!”

She went as close as she could on the path, then gingerly, carefully, began to pick her way closer to the boulder.

“I’m so c-cold, Bron!”

“I’ll have you warm soon,” she promised, fighting the urge to hurry, for that could be fatal. She could get stuck herself, and sucked under the muck and water if she put her foot wrong.

“I’m hungry, too.”

“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

Her MySpace page:
www.myspace.com/margaretmoorewriter

Twitter:
www.twitter.com/WriterMargMoore

Her Newsletter:
http://www.margaretmoore.com/draw.html

Her Story Seedlings blog:
http://storyseedlings.blogspot.com

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

THE WARRIOR’S FORBIDDEN VIRGIN by Michelle Willingham

AT THE DUKE’S SERVICE by Carole Mortimer

HIS SILKEN SEDUCTION by Joanna Maitland

A NIGHT FOR HER PLEASURE by Terri Brisbin

DISROBED AND DISHONORED by Louise Allen

THE UNLACING OF MISS LEIGH by Diane Gaston

A NIGHT OF WICKED DELIGHT by Joanne Rock

PLEASURED BY THE ENGLISH SPY by Bronwyn Scott

THE RAKE’S INTIMATE ENCOUNTER by Ann Lethbridge

NOTORIOUS LORD, COMPROMISED MISS by Annie Burrows

THE UNMASKING OF LADY LOVELESS by Nicola Cornick

LIBERTINE LORD, PICKPOCKET MISS by Bronwyn Scott

THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE by Margaret Moore

SHIPWRECKED AND SEDUCED by Amanda McCabe

Craving something a little longer? Find more historical romantic adventure from Harlequin Historical at www.eHarlequin.com or your local bookstore.

Interested in writing for Harlequin Historical UNDONE? Send your submission to undone@harlequin.ca.

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

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text October be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

www.eHarlequin.com