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      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

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