The Welsh Lord's Mistress

“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.