Lust Potion For the Alpha

by Alice Coldbreath

  “If he’d hit his head on the table on the way down we would have brained him to death! It’s a mercy he still has his wits about him! Even if they are scrambled,” she added dolefully.

  Miriam poured water into a bowl distractedly and then began splashing her face with it. She shivered. “Why does Jean insist on bringing my water at the same time as yours,” she moaned. “It’s gone quite cold!”

  Issy ignored her and sat on the bed.

  “I hadn’t thought this through,” she said wringing her hands.

  Her sister turned to look at her.

  “What’s this? You wanted to end up like our aunt, a drain on your brother-in-law? Or perhaps you fancied entering a convent?”

  “Don’t be nasty.”

  “It’s the cold hard truth,” said her sister throwing aside a towel. “We are women and these are our choices. We may as well be realistic.”

  “What, that you marry your childhood sweetheart and I end up being bedded by a stranger?” asked Issy somewhat hysterically.

  This brought her sister up sharp. She softened her gaze and made her way around to where Isolde sat.

  “Don’t be like that Iss,” she said placing her hands on her shoulders. “You’ll soon bring him to book. You know how capable you are. That’s why father doesn’t want to lose you. You run this house, not aunt Enid. Father will be lost without you. We all will.”

  Issy sniffed.

  “He’s … he’s a bit…”

  “Scary?” guessed Miriam biting her lip. “Huge?”

  “Scary and huge,” agreed Issy hiding her face in her hands. “I don’t know what to do with him.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” soothed Miriam. “You always do. Remember father’s horse? You have a way of soothing savage beasts.”

  Somehow it didn’t sound as comforting said aloud as Miriam had intended when she’d thought it in her head.

  By the time the sisters had descended to the great hall their father had already had a private interview with Lord Mallon-Garth. He looked shell-shocked, his uneaten breakfast sat in front of him as he rubbed his nose and stared into his tankard. Their aunt surveyed them sourly.

  “Good morning father, Aunt Enid.”

  “Well, he still wants you,” said her aunt sourly. “Your father checked first thing this morning in case it was the drink talking last night.”

  “The drink?” she repeated stupidly, staring at her father who fidgeted miserably in his seat.

  “Tis sorry I am to lose you daughter,” he mumbled looking tearful. “I never meant to .. you’re far too useful around here for me to hand you over. But somehow…” he sighed miserably. “He’s not the type you can say nay to.”

  Miriam gave a crack of laughter.

  “Good gods, surely you can see this is a good thing for Isolde?” she demanded. “Lord Mallon-Garth has wealth, lands, a fearsome reputation as a warrior in the field. He can give her riches, children…”

  Isolde sank back down into the chair with a moan.

  “Is he really such a catch?” she asked sounding stricken.

  “Yes indeed,” her father responded dismally. “Even in this provincial backwater his reputation has preceded him. You must have heard tell of his prowess on the field of battle? The crown prince himself awarded him with two estates after the campaigns at Matteia and Domorne.”

  Isolde’s gaze met her sister’s over their father’s fluffy white head.

  “Why on earth did he come to our family to find a wife?” asked Miriam sounding stupefied. “It doesn’t make any sense!”

  Their father started guiltily.

  “That was a favour to me,” he admitted colouring slightly. “I did his lordship’s father some small service some years ago… but I never dreamt…”

  “What small service?” put in their aunt bluntly. “Don’t be coy Godfrey. It’s most frustrating!”

  Their father coughed.

  “As you know I am a merchant and it was with the purchase of a sale of land. There’s no mystery around it. He promised to look me up at a future point and do me a good turn if fate decreed. ” Her father shook his head mournfully. “Why his son wouldn’t take Miriam is anybody’s guess.”

  “Father!” huffed Miriam. “For my part I am heartily glad that he’s chosen Isolde.” She tossed her head.

  “Well he means to have you,” sniffed their father woefully looking at Isolde. “And I’m sorry to tell you this daughter, but he’s not a man for waiting. Today is to be your wedding day.”

  Isolde’s jaw dropped.

  “Wh-what?”

  “He’s keen as mustard,” her father shrugged. “And means to carry you off with him before the week’s out.”

  “Carry me off?” she repeated dumbfounded. “Leave Wick Hall?”

  “It’s disgraceful,” tutted their aunt. “No formal betrothal. No bride clothes. No bridal banquet… What will our neighbours say? She’s being carried off like a hostage in a raid!”

  “My poor little Isolde,” said their father looking pained. “A bride!”

  Issy moaned faintly raising her hand to her throat.

  “I can’t believe this!” she choked out.

  Her sister was at her side in an instant.

  “There, there Isolde. You’ll handle this well. You’ll handle him well. I know it.”

  Isolde stared up at her.

  “But Miriam…” she answered softly. “The potion…”

  Miriam was there in an instant cutting off her words.

  “There sister,” she said loudly. “You’re not to turn maidenly now. It’s long past time you were wed. Father’s been selfish trying to keep you an old maid for his own convenience. He should marry again.”

  “Marry again?” screeched Enid looking outraged. “My poor sister is not yet cold in the grave.”

  “She’s been dead for fifteen years!” pointed out Miriam tartly. “Either that or you can take up the reins of the household Aunt. Why should Issy have to do it all?”

  Before their indignant aunt could reply Miriam had pushed away her plate of bread and refused a bowl of pottage with a grimace.

  “We need to sort out her wedding gown, Aunt.”

  Enid dragged back her seat.

  “True enough,” she agreed. Let us go up to the solar and get to work.

  “It must have long full sleeves,” stipulated Miriam excitedly. “There’s that bolt of scarlet velvet we haven’t used…”

  “Not scarlet, it would look hideous with that mousey hair!” objected Enid.

  “A low neckline is essential.”

  “Certainly not! And you needn’t think I didn’t notice that stunt of yours last night at dinner Isolde,” her aunt scolded. “Utterly shameless. No wonder the poor man fainted from shock.”

  Issy blushed. She’d started to think she’d gotten away with it unseen by anyone save Lord Mallon-Garth.

  “I thought you said it was an excess of wine,” retorted Miriam spiritedly. “You can’t have it both ways.

  “Are you sure you’re yourself again, Jorah?” asked Alfric sounding disapproving. “I’ve never known you faint in your life!”

  “I didn’t faint,” snapped Jorah with irritation as he dismounted from his horse after a guided tour around his prospective father-in-law’s estate. “I … passed out.” He handed his reins to his squire and glared to find him avidly listening. “It was nothing!”

  “You’d barely touched a drink,” scoffed his friend. “And you’d eaten well at dinner. I almost started to suspect…”

  “Suspect what?” asked Jorah dryly as they started to walk away from the stables. Sir Merrell’s steward who’d guided them was walking far enough ahead for them to converse in private.

  Alfric bobbed his head in embarrassment, lowering his voice.

  “That they’d poisoned you.”

  Jorah stopped stock still.

  “Poisoned? Don’t be ridiculous. Why should some provincial little baron who barely knows me take it upon him
self to murder me?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted his friend distractedly. “But I’ve known you go days without sleep or food and never lose consciousness.”

  “My head ached,” he replied testily. “And there was a strange smell that affected me.” He cast a sideways look at his friend. “Did you catch a whiff of it?”

  “A strange smell?” he shrugged. “No. But that wasn’t the only odd thing.”

  “What then?”

  His friend hesitated before coming to a standstill.

  “Your choice of bride.” He said levelling a straight gaze at him. “Why pick the plain dumpy one and not the beauty?”

  Jorah felt his inner wolf turn and snarl and was surprised to find his hands had curled into fists. He purposely breathed out and unballed them slowly,

  “You think her plain?” he forced himself to ask calmly.

  Alfric was eyeing him uneasily.

  “You don’t?”

  “No,” he answered shortly. “I don’t.”

  Alfric’s eyes widened perceptibly.

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” asked Jorah shrugging as he felt the dangerous moment pass. “I’m not so sure I do.”

  “Well, she’s not your usual type,” shrugged Alfric. “But mayhap that’s no bad thing. You shouldn’t choose your wife like you do a doxy when all’s said and done.”

  Jorah gave a short laugh as he thought of the bold-faced camp follower who had been his last mistress. She’d been an exquisite piece, auburn hair, violet eyes and a mouth that could make a man weep. He frowned bringing Isolde Merrell’s face to mind. Why did the thought of those clear grey eyes make his gut clench. Her attraction for him wasn’t a straightforward one that was true enough. He passed a hand over his face and felt his stubble.

  “I need to shave,” he muttered. “We’re to be wed today.”

  “Gods they’re keen!” blurted Alfric sounding thunderstruck. “Are you sure you shouldn’t check the girl’s credentials, her reputation locally….”

  “I stipulated the wedding date, Alfric.”

  “Oh. Oh well.” His friend coughed awkwardly. “In that case…”

  “I want to get back to my lands,” he sighed. “They’ll be facing wrack and ruin in my absence. My Uncle’s been unwell and no-one’s been acting as estate manager in my absence. My pack is set at odds with one another without my beta in place.” He gave Alfric a significant look.

  “I wasn’t about to let you go off and defend king and country without me,” he muttered. “We thought your Uncle Cedric would hold it together…”

  “Well, the best laid plans…” Jorah broke off seeing his friend’s stricken expression. “Never mind, we’ll soon be back at Varkash Keep and get it all in order again.” He clapped Alfric on the shoulder.

  “Do you mean to tell her – I mean, the Lady Isolde about … the pack. Before you’re wed I mean,” asked Alfric.

  “No,” answered Jorah shortly. “No I don’t.”

  “Ah well, I suppose you know what you’re doing,” answered Alfric sounding anything but.

  Jorah inclined his head.

  “I’ve already outlined my reasons to you for this marriage,” he pointed out.

  Alfric hesitated.

  “I know the situation between your parents was far from ideal but…”

  Jorah’s face turned stony and Alfric realised his mistake at once.

  “Your pardon, forgive me.”

  Jorah swept his hand in a swiftly dismissive gesture.

  “Believe me, I’ve thought this through rationally and without emotion clouding my judgement. I’ll wed a sensible human female who will know her place. Namely to be a comforting wife providing a comfortable home. And my heirs. That’s it.”

  ”And you don’t intend to mate her?” asked Alfric even though he already knew the answer.

  “Certainly not.”

  Alfric glanced at Jorah’s closed off face with a small frown. He knew nothing of women but even he had an uneasy feeling his friend was making something of a mistake.

  They were to be married as the sun went down in late afternoon. The Bishop had ridden down from Great Wick after his summons, for which he was handsomely paid. There were few guests, mostly just the Merrell servants and serfs. Isolde was wearing a midnight blue velvet dress which she, her sister and her aunt had hastily sewn together with long sleeves that draped all the way to the floor and a jewelled girdle belt that was her mother’s.

  “You’ll have to show your waist for once,” pronounced her sister with satisfaction. “And I think the neckline should be lower.”

  “Certainly not!” objected aunt Enid. “That would be most unseemly.”

  “She’s wearing a white shift underneath anyway,” scowled Miriam. “She may as well display all her assets for once.”

  As their aunt started to bundle Isolde’s hair into a net, Miriam reached across and twitched it out of her hand.

  “She’s a bride, her hair must be loose.”

  “She’s not in the first flush of her youth,” pointed out their aunt tartly.

  “She’s a bride,” repeated Miriam obstinately. “It must be loose.”

  Their aunt tutted but let her have her way.

  Isolde fretted and fiddled with the jewelled belt with nerveless fingers.

  “Father’s giving you that in place of a dowry,” nodded Miriam. “It’s a wonder Lord Mallon-Garth will allow it. He must want you pretty badly Iss.”

  Issy’’s hand fell away from the ornate copper links.

  “Well it’s not as if he needs money or lands,” she pointed out hollowly. “Did you realise he was so rich and famous when we went down to the feast?”

  Miriam nodded slightly.

  Issy cursed softly seeing their aunt retreat to the far end of the room to sort through the cloaks for travelling clothes for the morrow.

  “Maybe he would not have picked either one of us,” she pointed out quietly. “The favour father had done his was some trifling affair. Maybe he would have just moved onto another family to look their daughters over. Now, thanks to that potion I’ve falsely snared him for a husband.”

  “So what?” shrugged Miriam. “You deserve a rich and famous husband as much as any other girl. More so, as you hadn’t much time left before you dropped off the shelf from extreme age.”

  Issy’s slippered foot shot out to nudge her sister in the shin. Hard. Miriam laughed before turning suddenly serious.

  “Have you enough to get you through the bedding?”

  Issy stared.

  “I’m not putting on anymore of that awful potion!” she whispered furiously as the meaning of her sister’s words sunk in.

  Miriam tugged on a lock of her loose hair.

  “Don’t be foolish Iss,” she urged her in a low voice. “Just this one last time. To ensure he … erm, rises to the occasion.” Her cheeks were bright pink by now.

  Issy blinked at her.

  “If you think that without it he would be unable to perform the groom’s duties then it bodes ill for our next thirty years of marriage sister,” she pointed out with dignity.

  “Once he knows you, of course he will be smitten,” argued her sister spiritedly. “But he doesn’t know your finer qualities yet,” she pointed out. “He may need a helping hand.”

  Issy blinked back the sudden tears rushing into her eyes.

  “What a false bride I am,” she whispered sadly. “If this were turned into a ballad I would be the villain!”

  “Of course you would not!” argued back Miriam. “Men are fools. We women have to sometimes show them the way. That is all.”

  Issy gaped at her.

  “What if he passes out again?” she whispered furiously. “Then there would be no consummation of the vows at all and the ceremony would be invalid.”

  Miriam rocked back on her heels considering this.

  “You’re right,” she conceded at last. “We’ll just have to hope a residue remains on your skin. Mayhap
you could wear the same chemise again? The one we spilt it on?”

  Isolde nodded at last.

  “I suppose,” she sighed. “It’s not very romantic is it?”

  An observation she sadly revisited again and again as the day progressed. Their ceremony was a hasty affair. Lord Mallon-Garth did not meet her eyes once during it but stood in stony silence apart from repeating the vows at the right moment. Issy glanced timorously up at him several times but he did not turn to her even once. When she’d first appeared in the vestry his head had jerked up and eyes had narrowed with displeasure.

  “What is that perfume you’re wearing?” he’d gritted out as though pained.

  Isolde swallowed nervously.

  “Perfume?” she’d echoed faintly. “But I’m not wearing any…”

  His burning gaze scorched the lies on her tongue. “Unless you mean the one I applied last night that still lingers on me…” she amended hastily. “’Tis a scent my sister gave me. She bought it on a saint’s day. From Great Wick.”

  “It doesn’t suit you,” he answered crushingly. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave off wearing it.”

  Isolde stared. He couldn’t know! Could he..?

  “O-of course,” she’d murmured obligingly. “If it pleases your lordship.” After all, she didn’t intend to wear that damn perfume ever again! She’d thought his stern-faced companion, Sir Alfric had looked at her with something approaching approval at this. She’d coloured guiltily feeling like the worst kind of fraud. She hadn’t managed to eat more than a bite at supper despite the hurried array of dishes the kitchens had managed to lay on with fish and meat pies, stewed fruits and roasted joints of meat. All too soon it had been time for the bedding and Isolde found herself escorted up to the biggest guest bedchamber by her aunt, her sister and her father’s steward’s wife. Divested of her gown they’d helped her into the bed and left her sat there in her shift shivering beneath the covers despite the roaring fire in the grate. A murmuring of masculine voices outside the door heralded the arrival of her husband. Isolde swallowed nervously and pulled the sheets up to her chin. She could hear her father’s unhappy tones wishing the groom good speed. Funny she hadn’t realised till today that she was her father’s favourite. She hunched her shoulders and hunkered down further in the sheets. Just then the door cracked open and Mallon-Garth appeared in the doorway, looming and massive in the flickering firelight. Issy swallowed. Now she’d find out if she should have doused herself with the last of the lust potion. Taking a tentative glance up at his furious face she suddenly wished she’d drained the bottle.