Читать книгу The Welsh Lord's Mistress - Margaret Moore - Страница 7

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.