Lust Potion For the Alpha Read online

  Wick Manor House, Little Wick, The Summer Lands

  The two young women stood side by side surveying themselves in the long glass on the far wall of the upper solar. Fires burnt brightly in the sconces as well as in the large stone hearth behind them. Still Isolde shivered despite the mild April evening. She smoothed the skirts of her green gown and checked the lacings that ran down her sleeves showing the white chemise underneath. It was her favourite dress but she never deceived herself she had any claim to beauty even decked in her finest gown. She was just … altogether too rounded. Her face, her belly, her thighs, it had ever been the same since she was a small chubby child. She sighed and turned to face her stunningly slim younger sister Miriam. The contrast between them had always been a cruel one.

  “You just have to snare his interest Isolde,” her sister told her fiercely. “Otherwise all is lost for Benwick and me.” Her voice trembled with emotion and Isolde guessed she had been crying all afternoon about her fate since their father had told them Lord Mallon-Garth was coming to their manor house on a bride finding mission.

  Isolde gazed at Miriam in dismay.

  “But how am I to do that with you by my side?” she pointed out reasonably. “No man will ever look at me when you’re close by!”

  A look of cunning stole over her beautiful sister’s face.

  “Ahah!” she said, reaching into a leather pouch that hung from her hip belt. “That’s where you’re wrong… not if you’re wearing this.” She pulled out a tiny glass bottle and held it up to the light.

  “What is it?” asked Isolde hesitating as she stared at the tiny glinting vial.

  “It’s a tincture. A potion devised to drive a man mad with lust.”

  “Lust?” squeaked Isolde, glancing nervously over her shoulder. What if Aunt Enid was close by? She’d surely beat them both! She lowered her voice. “Where did you get it? How do you know it works?”

  “A hawker sold it me in Great Wick last feast day when father took me to the cathedral to pray for the men’s safe return from the wars. He swore it had powers as it is brewed from the bones of a holy virgin.”

  Isolde frowned.

  “What would holy virgins know of lust?” she pointed out reasonably making Miriam pout.

  “Don’t be tiresome Isolde! This is the answer to our prayers!”

  “Have you… have you perchance had a sniff of it?” asked Issy. “Or … tried it out even?”

  Miriam tossed her dark curls over one slight shoulder.

  “I have no need of it,” she sniffed. “Benwick hangs off my every word.”

  That was true enough, thought Isolde. And that was why Miriam was determined not to catch the eye of their illustrious guest, Jorah Mallon-Garth. Her sister had secretly pledged herself to their childhood friend over six months ago. The news of their father’s illustrious guest who was apparently on a bride promise had sent Miriam into a frenzy of fear as the family beauty.

  “Quick, dab some on now before our Aunt comes up to fetch us for the banquet.”

  “Okay,” Isolde’s hands shook as she pulled out the tiny cork and dabbed it onto one finger before patting her neck gingerly.

  “Goodness, you’ll need more than that,” cried Miriam, surging forward. “Why on earth have you swathed yourself in so many scarves?” she scolded pulling away at the layers of silk wrapped about her sister’s body.

  “I’m trying to hide my bosom of course,” frowned Isolde. “You know what Aunt Edith says.

  “All you’re doing is hiding your enviably small waist,” snapped Miriam. “Why do you insist on listening to our aunt anyway. Everyone knows she’s a dried up old spinster! What would she know about how to display your figure to advantage?”

  Isolde grimaced as her sister sloshed the oily fluid into her ample cleavage.

  “Brr, It’s cold!” she complained. “And oily. Don’t use anymore for Lord’s sake!”

  Miriam pulled back a frown on her face.

  “I can’t smell anything!” she admitted, cocking her dark head to one side. “Can you?”

  Isolde sniffed.

  “No,” she admitted. “At least… maybe just faintly. It smells like plums.”

  “Plums? Not.. anything a bit more exotic?”

  Isolde hesitated.

  “Are plums an aphrodisiac in some parts?” she hazarded.

  “Not that I’ve ever heard,” muttered Miriam darkly. “That hawker better not have spun me a yarn!”

  Isolde tried not to worry it might have spotted her undergarments with grease. That would be hard to explain on the next laundry day. Why aunt I have I have always suffered from greasy bosoms! She couldn’t see it washing somehow, not with her aunt or in the soap tub.

  “Now, try not to talk of the commonplace or mundane like you usually do, Issy,” her sister coached her as she seized her long brown braids and swiftly re-plaiting them where they looked untidy.

  “How do you mean?” asked Issy her eyes widening.

  “Try not to talk of the harvest or livestock or what the sexton preached of in church last week.”

  “But that’s what’s happening in my life. It’s what I know,” she broke off at her sister’s exasperated sigh.

  “And that’s why you have no suitors Issy!” her sister blurted in annoyance.

  “Of what should I speak of then?”

  “Try to talk of … ideals. Of spiritual aspirations. Of …tales of heroism or romance,” her sister recommended hesitantly. “Men like that.”

  Issy tried not to show her panic.

  “But I don’t know anything about those things!” she protested. “This will never work Miriam!”

  “That’s why the gods gave you that bosom you fool!” snapped her sister. “Why will you simply not use it?”

  “My bosom?” echoed Isolde aghast. “Wh-what on earth does my bosom have to do with anything?”

  Miriam plunked her hands on her hips.

  “Do you want to save me your only sister?” she asked wheedlingly.

  “Of course I do.” Issy bit down on her thumbnail. “The gods know I would do anything for you.”

  “And you want me to have the bridge-groom of my choice, not some awful warrior – I mean, not some complete stranger,” she amended swiftly. “Who couldn’t possibly hope to win my heart.”

  “Well of course ..”

  “Then take off your chemise,” urged her sister grabbing her dress sleeve and dragging it down her shoulder.

  “But the potion…”

  “The potion may need a little help!”

  “Our aunt will never allow me in the great hall looking like … like this!” stammered Issy ten minutes later divested of her shift undergarment and laced back into her outer dress only. “I look like… a …” words failed her.

  “A trollop,” agreed Miriam nodding her head and looking somewhat awe-struck.

  “I was going to say inn wench! An inn wench of ill repute!”

  “It’s the same thing Iss, you silly goose!”

  “Please don’t make me do this!” she implored her sister a clamour of terror raising in her throat. “I’ll die of shame! Father will beat me tomorrow if I sit at the table showing everyone my chest!”

  “No he won’t. Not if you’re slung over Mallon-Garth’s pommel being ridden back to the Winterlands.”

  “Slung over his what? Is that stable slang?” asked Isolde faintly.

  Her sister ignored her, ducking into a dark cupboard to retrieve a jug of mead.

  “Drink this, for courage,” she urged her, raising the jug to her lips. Isolde’s protests were stemmed as the sweet fluid poured into her mouth.

  “Quick, now I’ll wrap this scarf around your neck and our aunt will
be none the wiser… Wait until we get past the second or third course,” her sister instructed her firmly. “Wait until his eyes are you on you and then fling it off and show him your bounty.”

  Isolde moaned faintly.

  “If possible, try and brush past him or even thrust them under his nose like this,” her sister demonstrated with an arch of her slender back. “Mayhap touch your neckline with your finger like so, as if you’re caressing your skin, draw his attention to your female charms.”

  “What?” Isolde stared at her sister aghast. “Where did you learn this?”

  “It’s womanly arts Iss. It’s high time you learnt some. You’re three and twenty not some child in the nursery. And if you can get close enough to him he may even be able to smell those magic plums.”

  “Magic plums?” Issy’s head span.

  “The potion, Issy, the potion. Concentrate for the gods sake!”

  Both girls whirled around anxiously as their aunt swung the oak door open and beckoned for them.

  “Oh Lord!” moaned Issy. “Saints preserve me!”

  Jorah accepted another flagon of ale from his host as the two girls were ushered into the great hall by their formidable looking aunt. He surveyed them both as he took a long draught of his drink. The ale was pleasantly sweetened, he thought with honey which made it much more enjoyable than the usual bitter fare. His eyes were drawn back to the prospective brides as their father stood at the table and cleared his throat with import. The first candidate was dark and slight and entered with a graceful swish of her hips as she glided across the rush-strewn floor, her eyes downcast with what he already suspected was false modesty from her polished entrance.

  “My youngest daughter Miriam,” intoned his host eagerly. “She’s reached her nineteenth birthday tis true, but I’ve felt no undue haste to wed her off, beauty that she is.”

  Miriam raised her vivid blue eyes at this point to clash with his and he could see she had been crying tears of anger at some point that day. He winced inwardly. Temperamental and difficult, he thought without enthusiasm. So much for the reputed family beauty. Moody bitch wouldn’t be getting near my bed!

  “Miriam will play the lute and sing for our entertainment tonight,” pronounced her father with satisfaction. “She’s a rare talent and not just a pretty face.”

  Jorah almost groaned. She was a bloody musician too. Just perfect.

  His man at arms and companion Sir Alfric leant toward him.

  “The girl’s a beauty no mistake,” he rumbled in Jorah’s ear. Jorah shrugged, his eyes drawn to the second female following in her wake. This one had light brown hair in braids which hang down to her waist and big grey eyes. Her form was plumper and more rounded than her sister’s although from the way she’d swaddled herself against curious eyes she may as well be in nun’s garb for all he could see of her form! He glowered with annoyance as he plucked at a bunch of grapes a servant held up to him. The fool almost dropped the fruit on his feet.

  “Y-your pardon m’lord,” he stammered backing away and colliding with Jorah’s squire.

  “Easy Jorah,” murmured Alfric sounding amused. “You’re scaring the help!”

  Jorah opened his mouth to give a scathing retort when he noticed the ready if somewhat hesitant smile of the plump sister who was gazing in his direction, bobbing him a curtsey.

  Eager to please, thought Jorah grudgingly. He felt the beast within stir with interest which surprised him. He shifted in his seat as Miriam hissed at her father.

  “Oh aye,” said her father hurriedly clearing her throat. “And this is my elder daughter Isolde. A good girl,” he added judiciously. “She’s a great help about the place.”

  Isolde’s smile turned a little glassy.

  “Welcome to Wick Hall all,” she stammered obligingly before going to seat herself between her sister and father.

  “Ow!”

  She stumbled back finding some invisible obstacle before blushing and then re-thinking her strategy.

  “Excuse me, sirs,” she apologised elbowing her way determinedly between a clergyman and her father’s steward to sit directly opposite him on the bench.

  Jorah’s eyebrows rose at her blatant attempt to win his attention.

  “Determined wench,” he murmured in grudging admiration.

  His friend snorted.

  “She’s the elder. She must be desperate. She should have been wedded and bedded years ago.”

  Strangely enough, the thought made his throat go dry and he continued to watch her covertly as the first course was paraded around the banqueting table by a procession of servants but after such a bold start the lass had grown timorous. She barely lifted her gaze from her plate and her cheeks had turned scarlet. He found himself feeling slightly disappointed. When she nibbled on a sweetmeat with her white even teeth he found himself leaning forward, his eyebrows snapping together and his inner wolf bounding up with a growl. For a moment he thought he felt a flash of recognition as if he knew her but at that very instant a cloying scent reached his nostrils making him recoil in alarm. Rancid fruit, he thought distractedly glancing down the table at his host’s spread. But all looked as it should. He turned his head sideways to see if Alfric had noted it, but found his companion looking at him expectantly.

  “… foregone conclusion,” his companion was murmuring.

  Jorah realised his friend had been speaking to him and he hadn’t even heard him.

  He shook his head slightly and turned back to gaze at the older girl.

  “What’s your age wench?” he demanded imperiously raising his voice above the clamour of conversation about the table. All fell quiet in an instant and you could have heard a pin drop.

  The pastry slipped through her fingers and fell on her plate with a thud.

  “Me?” she squeaked.

  “Aye you,” he growled, narrowing his eyes.

  She lifted her chin and straightened her back.

  “I am three and twenty my Lord.” She told him in a louder voice though it quaked slightly.

  Alfric was right, she should have been wedded years ago. He shot a glance at her father whose eyes had practically started from his head.

  “You are not betrothed or promised to anyone?”

  Not that he cared, he would simply have her father break it. Still, he liked to know up front of he had rough ground to cover. He was a soldier after all.

  “No my lord,” she looked astonished by his question and swallowed nervously before licking her bottom lip.

  His eyes flew to her sweet full lips and he almost bared his teeth. Almost. His inner wolf growled low and long.

  “Nor widowed?” he ground out. She was old enough truth be told.

  “No my lord.”

  “A virgin then,” he grunted taking another swig of his drink.

  “Er, yes my lord,” Isolde answered, a hot flush of colour rising into her cheeks.

  She looked like a doe in his cross-bolt sights. Frozen with fear. He felt his pulse low in his groin. If only that damn rancid stench wasn’t filling his nostrils and making his head pound. He couldn’t concentrate on the matter at hand. Not with the pain that was threatening to blossom through his skull. Where the hell was it coming from?

  Suddenly a strumming struck up and Jorah realised her bloody sister was about to start singing for them. He glowered and dragged his gaze back over to the dais where she was sat bathed in candlelight in her light blue gown. He supposed she made a pretty picture if you were into that sort of thing. Which he wasn’t. She tossed her dark head of curls and started singing in a sweet high voice about some ill-fated pair of lovers whose doomed passion burnt out too soon. With effort Jorah managed to stop himself from gritting his teeth. He abhorred this kind of maudlin sentiment. Gazing back at the table he could see everyone else was rapt gazing at the girl in stupefied gratification. Miriam had her eyes closed as she soulfully wailed the chorus. He winced, how many verses would there be to this plaguey song? The lovers couldn’t perish fast eno
ugh to his mind! Jorah found his gaze drawn back to the other sister who was nervously tugging at the scarf about her neck. She looked up and met his eyes with a start of embarrassment. What was she doing, he wondered suddenly intrigued. She looked guilty as hell. He went to take a bite of his venison, but the pain in his head became a wave of nausea and he dropped the meat instead. When he looked up again Isolde had shed her neck scarf and he practically started out of his seat with an uttered oath.

  Gods teeth!

  Before he knew what he was doing, he was striding around the table, seizing her by the elbow and yanking her off the bench.

  Her pretty tits jiggled as she was bounced up off her seat.

  “Lord Mallon-Garth!” she exclaimed breathlessly as he dragged her to his side and flung her scarf back over her exposed cleavage with unsteady hands. Vaguely he noted that the music had stopped and everyone was staring at them agog.

  “I’ll take this one,” he pronounced thickly and then fell forward, planting his palms on the table to steady his balance. A trencher of apples and a roasted boar’s head fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

  “Jorah!” Alfric was up out of his seat a look of concern plastered across his face.

  “It’s naught. A headache,” he ground out before everything started spinning and the whole world turned black.

  Isolde felt terrible as she pulled on her thick gray woollen day dress the next morning as soon as she heard the cock crow. Poor Lord Mallon-Garth had passed out cold thanks to their wicked plot! She had an uneasy feeling his companion Sir Alfric somehow suspected her perfidy. His gaze had been almost accusing as they had stared at each other over his fallen friend’s huge body. She shuddered. If he knew his lordship had passed out from a surfeit of lust he would be furious! Her hand picked up the tiny bottle from where she’d hidden it in her undergarment draw and she withdrew the tiny bottle to stare at it once more. How could something so small be so potent? It was terrifying stuff indeed. She glimpsed in the big round glass and frowned at her appearance. Quickly she plaited her long brown hair into two smooth plaits and flung them over her shoulders before adding a large patterned sash across her chest and tying it around her waist to try and disguise her large chest. She wished she wasn’t so bosomy! True, her hips were big too but she longed for a dainty feminine figure like her sister’s or even her skinny aunt. Alas, Isolde was blessed or cursed with a healthy appetite and constitution and she loved her food. She doubted she’d ever be remotely waif like. If it wasn’t for that dreadful concoction handsome Lord Mallon-Garth wouldn’t have given her a second glance she thought dolefully. He was so tawny and golden like a lion with his colouring, his full lips, strong jaw and those terrifyingly icy blue eyes. He was like a god, all tall and muscular and well… beautiful. How on earth could he ever be appeased with her dumpy little mousey self she thought distractedly. It would never work! A lion and a mouse! Plus she had used over half of the bottle at the feast last night! How was she supposed to get through years of marriage without it to blind him to her faults? It was completely hopeless. The most she could hope for was a long betrothal giving Miriam time to run away with Benwick. If she wasn’t made of sterner stuff she would have sobbed as she made her way down from the upper chambers to slip out of the back door and escape into the cold grey morning. Drizzling with rain, thought Isolde distractedly as she slipped down the gardens towards where the livestock was kept. Hearing the hens crooning to greet her she relaxed into her usual routine and fetched them a pail of grain before sitting on the low wall and scratching one of the spotted pigs on their long hairy backs.