Love Potions

by Michelle M. Pillow

  His grin widened and he felt almost giddy. Putting the car into drive, he hit the gas, speeding down the long gravel road. For four days he tried not to think of her and for four days that’s all he’d done. Even the house preparations were behind schedule. With his energies down, they’d been unable to fix cracks in the plaster and a few antique portraits covered holes in the walls. At best he manually moved furniture around and cleaned. With as many rooms as the place had, it was a slow process. A night of sexual bliss in Lydia’s arms would do just the trick to get him rejuvenated.

  That is, if it doesn’t kill me.

  Erik’s excitement wavered as he reminded himself to keep his wits about him. With an inthrall he had to be careful or his death could be a very real possibility. Even so, he couldn’t wait for his date to start. He was going to wine and dine Lydia, romance and seduce her with every ounce of his MacGregor charm, and then he was going to thoroughly enjoy the fruits of his labor as he fucked her until sunrise.

  It was all planned. Dinner at the best restaurant in town. A drive in his classic car—a vehicle women just loved. Then back to her house for an all-night love fest. He moved uncomfortably in his seat. Four days longing for her had definitely been too long a time. Shifting gears, he forced his foot to ease up on the gas as he drove down the hill to her house. It wouldn’t do for her to know he was overeager.

  …

  Lydia glanced over the dim silver and blue interior of the Mustang. Though a little on the loud side, the car suited a man like Erik. Notwithstanding the stereo system hidden in the opened glove box with the digital clock front, the car had been restored to classic condition.

  Erik reached between them, grabbing the shifter as they came to the bottom of the hill. The car slowed to a stop. He looked over at her and confidently winked. She quickly turned away, focusing on the two thick white stripes painted down the center of the dark blue hood.

  When the car started to move, she glanced back at him from the corner of her eyes. Erik rested his hand on his bare knee. Lydia took a deep breath. She could definitely say this was the first date she’d been on where the man was wearing a skirt.

  Kilt, she corrected herself. It’s not a skirt, it’s a kilt.

  And it was damned sexy on him.

  On top he wore a basic white shirt, a black five button waistcoat, matching argyll jacket and a lighter wool tie. A black leather bag with silver studs wrapped his hips. Below the waist, the red and green plaid pattern fell to just above his bare knees. About three inches below the hem, longer kilt hose covered his calves.

  “It’s called a sporran,” Erik said.

  “Huh?” Lydia pried her eyes away from his waist, horrified to discover that she’d been staring at the man’s crotch again. Almost defensively, she said, “I wasn’t wondering what you wore under your kilt.”

  “Ah, well that would be nothing at all, lassie,” Erik said, again winking at her, “but I was telling ya that the black bag you’re looking at is called a sporran.”

  “Oh,” Lydia turned to the window, rolling her eyes as she mocked herself.

  Great going, Lydia! Way to make him think you’re not a sex crazed whore. Wait. Did he just say he was naked under the kilt?

  She peeked at him, trying to determine if he was teasing her or not.

  Oh, great. It’s bad enough I can’t think straight around him, now he has to tell me he’s not wearing any underwear.

  Was it too late to fake an illness and back out? Probably.

  How about jumping out of the car to run home screaming?

  Argh! Make conversation. Say something.

  “So, do you wear your kilt often?” Lydia instantly wanted to die. What an American thing to ask. He probably got asked dim-witted things every time he had one on. Mumbling, she said, “Never mind, that was stupid.”

  “I don’t think it’s a stupid question,” Erik said. “Aye, I wear the short kilt for special occasions. It’s just like putting on a pair of pants and can be a sight more comfortable on a warm night.”

  “So are these your family colors, then?” Lydia asked, motioning to the plaid.

  “Aye.” When he smiled at her, his whole face lit with pleasure. He really was handsome in a very arousing and rugged way. “Clan MacGregor has been wearing this same tartan since before the eighteen hundreds.”

  Erik pulled the Mustang in front of a restaurant and shut off the engine. “This is Perfection Restaurant, isn’t it? I followed the directions they gave me, but it looks closed.” Erik frowned at the tinted front windows. “I don’t understand. I made reservations.”

  “No, it’s open,” Lydia assured him. “Alana Davis, the owner, moved here three years ago and created quite the stir with her culinary talent. So much so, that she put a couple of the other restaurants in town out of business. Now, as retaliation, the two restaurant owners have gotten together and are trying to sabotage her business with a combined effort of their own. It’s turned into quiet the legendary feud. Since the two owners were born and raised here in Green Vallis, a lot of the townsfolk stopped eating at Alana’s out of loyalty to their own. It’s too bad. She really is the better chef.”

  “Do ya want to go somewhere else?” Erik inquired. “I wouldn’t want to get ya on bad terms with the townsfolk.”

  “No, I don’t really care what everyone else in town is doing.” Lydia smiled. “Besides, George, one of the rival owners used to tease me when we were in grade school together. I still haven’t gotten over it.”

  Erik chuckled and stepped out of the car. The breeze whipped his kilt and she received an intimate peek at the back of his thigh. He hurried around the car and opened her door, offering his hand. Lydia hesitated before taking it. Warm, humming energy coursed through her veins. This time, the warmth was followed by the cold chill. She shivered, drawing her hand away.

  “Are ya wearing…?” Erik leaned forward. “Is that lilies? Strange, I didn’t notice it earlier.”

  “No.” Lydia tensed. She was wearing lavender, her favorite.

  “Hm, curious.” Erik glanced around the dimly lit street. Just like the rest of the downtown area, the old buildings were squished closely together. Aside from a few parked cars, the streets were empty. He offered her his arm.

  Lydia bit her lip. She didn’t really have a choice but to take his arm. As her hand slid against him once more the tingling became palpable, feeding into her veins and pumping around her entire body. He led her to the front door and opened it for her. Inside, Perfection’s lights were soft. The red and gold classic décor added an elegant charm that bespoke sophistication and class without being overly pretentious. Italian oil paintings and antiqued mirrors graced the walls. Rustic chandeliers hung overhead, matching the tall candelabras. Soft music created a lovely background. A grand piano was in one corner, but Lydia had never seen it played.

  “Lydia, it’s so nice to see you again.”

  Lydia smiled, turning to look at Alana as she spoke. The woman was thin, oddly so considering she was an Italian chef. Her red-brown hair had been pulled back into a high bun, and she wore a dark red apron that matched the restaurant. By the looks of the place, Alana was the only one working that night. Only three tables were filled with dining couples.

  “Alana, this is Erik MacGregor. He just bought the old mansion,” Lydia introduced, using the moment to pull her hand away in hopes of severing the sexual connection now running rampant over her body. It didn’t work. “Erik, Chef Alana Davis.”

  Lydia turned to see Erik’s eyes intently studying her ass, as he temporarily ignored Alana. She trembled, wondering what wicked thoughts danced through that brain of his. Drawing his gaze away with a sheepish grin, he gave the chef one of his most charming smiles.

  “Pleasure,” he said, grinning.

  As Alana and Erik made small talk about being new to a small town and the current business economy of a place like Green Vallis, Lydia couldn’t concentrate. Erik had smelled lilies. Even someone as skeptical as she was could a
dmit when it was time to start paying attention to the signs around her. It was hard to admit though, since she’d spent most of her life trying to live down her grandmother’s “witch on the hill” reputation. It had been difficult growing up as the granddaughter to a self-proclaimed eccentric, but she wasn’t a child anymore. Maybe Gramma Annabelle knew a thing or two about what she’d always gone on about. There were a lot of unexplained things in the world.

  Did her grandmother try to send her a message? The cold chills? The smell of lilies? The vat of lotion exploding moments before Erik came to the door. Was Gramma Annabelle really trying to warn her? Was there a reason why she’d acted so out of character with the handsome stranger in the mansion gardens? A spell, perhaps? She felt like she was under an enchantment just being near him.

  That’s lust, pure and simple lust. I’m overworked and have gone without for too long. When the vat exploded I was tired and not paying attention. I had lily lotion all over. The scent could have lingered in my hair. The breeze stirred the smell.

  Symptoms of stress made more sense than her dead grandmother talking to her from beyond the grave.

  Alana led the way to a small round table in the corner, away from the other guests. Erik stepped aside, letting Lydia walk in front of him. Her legs stiffened, and she imagined he once again stared at her ass. She wasn’t surprised when he pulled out her seat for her. He did have the way of a gentleman about him.

  Once seated, Erik ordered wine. Lydia didn’t hear what kind. She was too busy trying not to gaze at his handsome face, while imagining the many ways she could discreetly drop something on the floor to see if what he said about the underside of his kilt was true. Lydia was glad the linen tablecloth fell low over her lap to hide the fact that her legs shook. She forcefully pressed her thighs together, trying to bury all thoughts of his body being so assessable and yet never more distant. It wasn’t like she could really do anything to him right here.

  Count my blessings, she thought wryly. If we were alone, I’d be in trouble.

  “You’re quiet, a stóirín.” When Erik looked at her, she felt she was the only one in the room. The low light softened his features with a seductive contrast. His gaze held hers before slowly traveling down her throat to her breasts and back up again.

  “Am I? I didn’t mean to be?” Lydia forced her mind to something other than carnal pleasures, relieved when her racing thoughts found a safe topic. “How’s the house coming along? Will you be hiring a maid service? I can imagine it was pretty dusty on the inside.”

  “No. No service. My family likes to tend to all the details ourselves.”

  Before she could inquire more Alana came back with the wine, poured their glasses and left the bottle. Lydia quickly took a sip, trying to hide the fact that she was again getting really hot and bothered by his steady gaze.

  This is such a mistake. Whatever made me think that if this man came on to me, I’d be able to refuse him?

  “So, where did ya learn magick?” Erik asked.

  Lydia blinked in surprise, nearly choking on her wine. Trying to recover gracefully, she managed, “I’m sorry? Magick?”

  “Aye, your Love Potions?” Erik grinned.

  “Oh, Love Potions,” Lydia repeated, wanting to slap the side of her head. For a moment she thought he meant real magick. Why was her heart beating so fast? They hadn’t even ordered yet, and she was ready to run out of there—away from the very delectable Erik MacGregor.

  He was looking at her expectantly. Lydia bit her lip. What had he asked?

  “Ah, my grandmother was an, uh, herbalist, and she taught me everything I know about it. She started making lotions for tourists and locals and, before she died, I took the business over. Last year I put it on the internet.”

  “Hm, I would have thought she was a witch,” Erik said.

  Lydia stiffened, waiting for the ridicule and disdain that usually followed that statement. He must have gone into town and met up with some of the local busybodies. Or, knowing Mrs. Callister, the woman trekked up the hill to meet Erik for herself. Yet somehow, when Erik said the word “witch” it was as if he mentioned the weather—like having an eccentric in the family was an everyday occurrence. Perhaps in his travels, it wasn’t as odd as it appeared to the sheltered small town she grew up in. He watched her expectantly, his expression straightforward. Faintly, she said, “Some have called her that.”

  “Then, she wasn’t?”

  Thankfully Alana came back to take their orders, and Lydia was saved from answering. It took all of her willpower not to grab the woman’s hand and force her to join them. Without even reading over her options, she handed the menu to Alana. “You know what I like.”

  Alana chuckled. “Yes, but I keep hoping you’ll try something else.”

  “Why change what works? I like what I like.” Lydia grinned.

  “I’ll have the same.” Erik handed his menu over without looking.

  “Very good,” Alana answered, leaving them alone.

  “But you don’t know what I’m getting,” Lydia protested.

  “If ya like it that much, it can’t be bad.” Erik’s eyes sparkled, reflecting the candlelight in a way that it appeared as if they glowed from within.

  Lydia felt her cheeks heating. Was she actually blushing—again? “For all you know, it could be snails.”

  Erik actually looked worried for a moment. Then, smiling, he said, “Doesn’t matter.”

  Lydia quirked a brow, trying not to laugh.

  Leaning forward in confidence, he whispered, “It isn’t, is it?”

  “No, it’s not.” Lydia giggled at his concerned look.

  “I never did care for French cuisine.” He relaxed, leaning back in his chair. “Ya have a pretty smile, lassie. I’m glad to see ya have finally decided to wear it for me.”

  Her giggling stopped. “Listen, I feel we should talk about the other day. I—”

  “A gentleman doesn’t expect a lady to talk about such things, unless of course ya want to?” He glanced around. “Though perhaps this is not the most opportune time.”

  Hell, no! I’d rather saw off my left arm than have the, “I’m sorry I almost gave you a blowjob like a whore” conversation.

  Lydia merely shook her head in denial. By the time she got the apology out anyway, she’d probably be under the table trying to give him another one. She clamped her thighs shut. It didn’t help calm the raging fire Erik lit in her sex with just his nearness.

  “Ya never answered. Was your grandma a witch?”

  Lydia thought about lying, but found herself saying, “Yes.”

  Wow. Did that actually come out of her mouth? It had to be the first time she actually admitted it out loud—well, to anyone who wasn’t Charlotte. What was it about Erik that made her want to be honest, to bare all—including his gorgeous body—and act on instinct?

  She watched his reaction, surprised when he still didn’t look fazed by her words. “That doesn’t shock you?”

  “Why should it?” Erik asked. “Do ya practice?”

  “No,” Lydia shook her head. “I know some herbs have healing properties or can be used as aromatherapy, but my grandmother took it all a step further. She believed in the old magick and ghosts and… Well, I’ve never did see anything that made me believe in actual magick. Now, magic tricks and illusions, yes, I believe those are possible on a Las Vegas stage, but true power?”

  “And seeing is believing?”

  “Yeah, it helps.” Lydia laughed. “I’m one of those people who, when everyone else is looking at the stage, I watch the dark side of the theater to see the magician running along the aisle for his magic trick’s grand reveal.”

  Alana came back carrying two plates full of fettuccine alfredo topped with parmesan and pine nuts. Lydia hummed softly in appreciation. The portions were way too big, but that had never stopped her from trying to finish her plate. Setting a basket of garlic bread in between them, the chef left them alone.

  “And what would ya
do if ya saw true power?” Erik picked up his fork.

  “If I saw real magick?” Lydia shrugged. “I’d like to think I’d be brave, but the truth is I’d probably run screaming for the hills.”

  …

  Night caressed the hillside, pressing into the little Victorian house nestled in its fold. Within the shadows, the air stirred differently as if pulling away from the threat of blue moonlight. They had waited for this moment, so long trapped in wraithlike form, mere lingering shadows of the powerful beings they so desperately wanted to be again. The shadow creatures had been waiting for the signs that it was time, able to read the age-old hints buried in the flow of the wind, divined in the falling leaves. It had only been a matter of time before the warlocks would be drawn to the great source of natural power. They were only two now, not the legion of millennia past. They had been conserving their powers, storing them for the energy it would take to create the army they needed.

  Nothing could get past the barrier encircling the Victorian home. The spell was airtight, woven perfectly around each piece of siding, each pane of glass, each block of foundation. It didn’t stop the shadow creatures from searching, poking and prodding every opening. For as all shadows knew, no spell was faultless, no enchantment lasted forever and no inthrall ever lived through what they had planned.

  Chapter Five

  Lydia wasn’t sure how she did it, but she managed to make it through dinner without jumping over the table and attacking Erik with very indecent kisses. When she stopped fantasizing long enough to listen to him and have a real conversation, she found him exceedingly funny and remarkably charming. He told stories of his ancestors as if he’d actually lived beside them. Since most of them shared his name and the names of his brothers, it was easy to assume he grew up hearing the tales through oral storytelling until they became a very real part of his heritage. But when he talked of his living family, she could tell he held back.