The Welsh Lord's Mistress

The Welsh Lord's Mistress
Margaret Moore

Bron yearned to be with Trefor ap Gruffydd for years—and even more so after he returns home from exile a handsome, hardened warrior. Brons's hopes are raised when she sees her desire reflected in Trefor's eyes. . . only to be crushed when she learns he is to be married to another woman! Terfor's duty demands that he marry a rich woman who can help his family's estate, not a servant like Bron.Yet Bron and Trefor's passion is too powerful to be denied. But if Bron is willing to give up her virtue to become his mistress, can Trefor sacrifice his honor to make her his wife?

Dear Reader:

When I first heard about Mills & Boon 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.

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 Mills & Boon Historical. Since then she has written more than forty historical romances for Mills & Boon 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.

The Welsh Lord’s Mistress

Margaret Moore

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)

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.