“Good morning Bess,” she murmured as her feet were soundly snuffled. “How’s my good girl?” Bess lifted her snout and chewed on half a turnip.
“I may have gotten betrothed last night,” carried on Issy conversationally. “Then again, I might not as he was under a powerful influence.”
Bess snorted.
“I know,” agreed Issy. “It was pretty low of me. In my defence it wasn’t my idea.”
Bess shifted a little closer. “What does he look like? Well,” she tapped her finger against her chin. “If I told you, you still wouldn’t believe me. What if I were to tell you he was amazingly handsome like a hero out of a ballad. Only not so pretty. More sort of, rugged and well, dangerous looking. Like an outlaw. Only with better teeth.”
Bess sniffed.
“It’s true I tell you,” frowned Issy. “I know it sounds made up but when have I ever lied to you?”
Bess turned her back and shuffled off in search of more sustenance. Issy sighed and stretched her legs out before her, then groaned when the drops of rain started to fall thick and fast. She’d find no peaceful refuge out here, she thought sadly, looking up and seeing nothing but storm clouds.
“What’s wrong Bessie?” asked Issy as the pig shuffled off again with an angsty squeal before bolting away from her. “You seem skittish today, girl.” She frowned looking around. None of the animals seemed to want to know her today. The free ranging hens had all run up to the far end of the field as soon as they’d gobbled up their feed and the pigs had abandoned their low walled sty to join them. Usually they enjoyed a bit of human company. The rain set her clambering to her feet with a heavy sigh. Clearly she was not in favour today. Swinging the bucket she made her way towards the nearest of outhouses and ducked inside. It would shield her from the worst of it before she navigated the five minute walk back to the house.
“Brrr!” The spots of rain had been cold and she hadn’t thought to throw on a cloak before she’d left the house. As she leant across to place the bucket on one of the shelves she heard a steady panting sound and realised belatedly she wasn’t alone. Dropping the pail with a clatter she wheeled around.
“Who’s there?”
Two pale blue eyes glinted at her from the darkness of the far corner of the barn. A flash of white teeth heralded the suggestion of a low rumbling growl. Issy gasped and held her breath, realising why the farm animals had been shunning her. They must have scented the intruder in their midst. She froze, her eyes straining to see what was in the shadows. Whatever it was, it was big. Big and black and hairy. She swallowed, from its size it could even be a bear although she knew they were rarely seen outside of the forest. Her mind balked at what her senses were telling her. Long muzzle, sharp teeth – wolf! But wolves she knew were grey and had pale yellow eyes so it couldn’t be a wolf, right? That meant it had to be a dog… She knew her father kept hunting dogs over in the long barn two fields away but they were kept well away from both the livestock and the house. Vaguely she tried to remember the name of her father’s favourite.
“Prince, is that you?”
She’d only ever seen Prince at a distance as their father insisted they were working dogs not pets. This one certainly did not look like anyone’s pet. Suddenly she realised why her father would never let any of them come near the house, a decision she’d always disagreed with until now. She’d thought a pet dog would be a pleasant companion but this one was clearly was not domesticated.
“There, there,” she cringed her voice wobbly. “Good boy, Prince. Good boy.”
The animal crouched still snarling as Issy’s eyes darted to the door and she licked her suddenly dry lips. Could she make it to the door before he pounced on her? It was doubtful, he’d be on her in an instant. She whimpered softly before realising he was slowly edging away from the door. She drew in a sharp breath as he moved slowly but surely away, no longer blocking her exit from the barn. Expelling the breath swiftly she took one shaky step and then another towards the murky grey daylight. Forcing herself to move slowly and not provoke the beast she a steady progress until she stood on the threshold itself. Turning her head slightly she blurted a hasty,
“Thank you Prince.”
And fled.
From the shadows Jorah’s hackles slowly went back down as he steadied his breathing enough to begin the transformation back into man-form. His senses were rioting. His wolf-self was going crazy with the need to pursue and subdue the fleeing female. Isolde, he hissed through his teeth which were now receding back into the gum. If the trace didn’t linger of that accursed perfumed oil on her skin he didn’t know if he would have been able to contain the impulse to attack her. To bite her. To mount her. He breathed out through his nostrils. The sickly sweet smell was still permeating the air and making his head swim. Damn it! It was fainter this morning but still pungent and vile. Why had she smothered her body in that filthy perfume? Under it he could faintly smell her own natural scent and that he realised with surprise was what was sending his wolf-senses into overdrive. He growled and shook his head as his limbs transformed and his body shifted. The air rippled around him as he flexed his rearranged muscles and sinew. For the first few moments his wolf senses still remained even though he was now a man. He wrinkled his nose, the barn smelt of animal feed and wood. His inner wolf yammered for his attention. He wanted her. I know, he told himself silently, but the wolf still twisted and turned within him trying to tell him something. It’s okay, he told himself we’ll have her. There’s no impediment. She’ll soon be ours. But still it wouldn’t settle. He frowned as he retrieved his clothes from where he’d stashed them behind some hessian sacks. Inside he was howling with frustration. His hands shook as he pulled on his shirt and black leather tunic. This was bad. Women didn’t usually affect him this way. Was it really a good idea to take this one to wife when she was already sending his dual nature into turmoil? He wanted few things from his impending marriage. An easy biddable wife who would help with the running of his home was paramount. For this reason the elder Merrell girl had seemed a suitable candidate. She wasn’t a beauty who’d cause him trouble with his lusty pack. She seemed pleasant enough with her hesitant smile and soft curvy body. He swallowed down his furious lust remembering her exposed breasts from the feast the night before. True enough, he hadn’t intended to announce his choice quite so soon but the combination of her buxom display, his savage reaction to it and his bewildered senses had culminated in his declaration. Damn his overloaded senses for causing him to pass out straight afterward! He hadn’t regained consciousness until the early hours of the morning when he’d awoken in his bedchamber to find his squire asleep in a chair at his feet. Gregory’s face had been white and pinched with worry as he’d explained that Alfric and two other manservants of Merrells had been forced to carry him to bed! He flushed with annoyance to think they might consider him a fool who couldn’t hold his ale! It was the girl’s damn perfume that was to blame! That and his own rampaging lust. It hadn’t been a good combination. He laced his doublet distractedly and then fastened his sword-belt before emerging cagily from the barn. He took in a couple of deep breaths of country air, relieved to find he wasn’t surrounded by Merrell serfs bearing pitch forks. She can’t have run back and raised the alarm then. He smiled slightly at the thought of her speech to him while he was in wolf-form. Oddly enough, her words had soothed him slightly though they’d made no earthly sense. Who the hell was this Prince she spoke of? A nasty snarl echoed in his head at the thought she might have her own beast already. No, that couldn’t be right he consoled his wolf-nature as it plunged and reared in fury within. His eyes widened in alarm. He needed to appease his animal nature and fast or there would be consequences for the wench. She’d find no gentle bedding if he continued like this. Striding towards the house he resolved to go and seek out Merrell for his consent. It would be a given of course, but the old man might balk at his undue haste. Too bad, as far as he was concerned the female was already his.
Issy
had no sooner scooted back to the house then she was waylaid by Benwick her sister’s betrothed.
“Is it true Iss?” he demanded dragging her into the gallery. “Mallon-Garth’s offered for you?”
Issy blenched.
“Not exactly,” she bit her lip. “How much has Mirrie told you?”
He coughed and lowered his eyes.
“Well… she told me about the love potion if that’s what you mean.” He had the grace to blush. Luckily Benwick had been a childhood friend to the both of them so she didn’t feel unduly awkward.
“Oh. Well. Lord Mallon-Garth was a bit overcome,” she admitted embarrassedly. “I don’t know if what happened really constitutes an offer of marriage. He said he’d take me and then he passed out cold.”
Benwick looked pained and ran a distracted hand through his brown curly hair. He was good looking in a boyish way and Issy had always understood how her sister had fallen for him until now. Now she thought of icy blue eyes and a strong manly jaw. She shivered, pulling the wrap she’d snatched up on her way in closer about her.
“You could hold him to a breach of promise if he tries to back out today. There were witnesses surely? Mirrie said half the county was invited.” He scowled at his own lack of invitation.
“That’s an exaggeration,” she replied quickly. “Mirrie was probably overwrought.”
“At least she never caught his eye,” breathed Benwick thankfully. “I was so sure she would.”
Issy grimaced. “Not that you don’t deserve a second look Issy.” He grinned. “You know what I mean.”
“I haven’t seen him this morning,” Issy continued letting him off the hook. “But then half the house has not yet risen. It’s not yet nine.”
“I was hoping to see Miriam,” he confessed scanning the hall.
“It’s doubtful she’ll be up and about,” she told him kindly. “Do you want me to pass her a message? If my father sees you he’ll be cross. You know how he’s taken against you since you asked after Mirrie’s dowry.”
Benwick sighed.
“Your father’s a tight old buzzard,” he frowned. “How can I afford to take a wife without a dowry? You’d better hope he’s more generous with Mallon-Garth or he’ll be withdrawing his offer for you.”
Issy sniffed.
“Then you’d better hope he’s more generous at the prospect of getting me off his hands,” she replied tartly making Benwick smile again.
“You know I didn’t mean anything by it Iss,” he said reaching out and grasping her below the elbow. It was a platonic gesture inspired by years of friendship but Issy heard the low rumble start up behind her almost before she was aware that a tall figure stood behind them.
Benwick’s mouth dropped open and he took an involuntary step backwards.
Issy turned her head and beheld Lord Mallon-Garth stood in a somehow aggressive stance, glowering at the pair of them.
“Lady Isolde,” he growled.
“My Lord,” she bobbed him a curtsey fighting down a hot blush of colour. “Right glad I am to see you looking better this morning. Are you feeling recovered after your night’s sleep?”
He continued to gaze at her as if she had not spoken and then turned to look pointedly at her companion and gave a slight rise of eyebrows.
“Oh! This is my – a friend of the family,” she corrected herself hastily. “Benwick Price.”
Benwick gave a stiff bow.
“Your servant my Lord.”
Jorah turned back to Isolde without responding.
“Your father?” he asked shortly.
Isolde’s eyebrows shot up at his intentional rudeness. What was his problem? His manners had seemed abrupt last night but she’d given him the benefit of the doubt due to his having been soldiering for the last three years.
“My father is probably at breakfast in the great hall,” she answered coolly. She turned back to Benwick. “You must excuse Lord Mallon-Garth’s manners,” or lack of them she left unspoken. “He’s not had any civilising influences having been at war.” She heard a sharp gasp but realised it was Benwick who was gaping in horror. At Mallon-Garth she shot a levelling look only to find him regarding her with a somewhat stunned look in his eye. He recovered swiftly, holding out one arm.
“You’ll come with me Miss Merrell,” he stated rather than asked.
She inclined her head regally and took his arm, deciding not to push it.
“That would be most kind of you milord.”
Bloody hells! Jorah thought, fighting down the clamour of his inner-self to assert himself over her. Never mind to rip the male threat limb from limb! Where was the biddable wench he’d thought to find now? Not only was she inciting him to violence by consorting with the opposite sex, she was also showing an inclination to defy him. And the ring wasn’t even yet on her finger! He tensed up as he got a whiff of the cloying rancid fruits making him jerk his head back.
“My Lord?” she asked, sounding concerned. “Has the headache returned?”
“It’s nothing,” he answered tersely. “You said last night you had no suitors.”
Her step faltered.
“I haven’t,” she lied through her pretty little teeth. He gave her a steady sidelong glance. While it was true she was no beauty she did have charms enough he noticed anew as he looked at her slightly upturned nose and large black-fringed grey eyes. That plump, pert little mouth that didn’t seem to have a problem with flouting him. And that was leaving the curvy little body that so inflamed him out of it. He grit his teeth.
“Who was that then?”
“I told you who he was when I introduced you,” she told him mildly. “An introduction you chose to ignore.”
He halted and squinted down at her. Who the hell did this little wench think she was to rebuke him? His inner-wolf flattened his ears and whined. Of course, his wolf didn’t give a damn about the fact she was impudent. A few nips would deal with that and a bedding. But he cared. He’d wanted her to be buxom and bonair in bed and board. The old wedding vows. Cheerful and pleasant, willing and complaint. He didn’t need some sharp-tongued shrew ripping up at him at every turn making his life a living hell. He was annoyed, disappointed even. The shyly smiling female from last night who’d tried to catch his attention had promised something else.
“You said you were still a maid,” he pointed out grimly.
She stared at him.
“My Lord,” she spluttered and tried to draw back her arm.
His inner-wolf didn’t like that and neither did he. No matter, he decided with a shrug retaining his grip by taking a firm hold of her upper arm. The flesh felt smooth and softly rounded even under the wool of her sleeve. He shivered whilst acknowledging that touching her made him feel strangely calmer. He had no intention of relinquishing her to a prior claim. It was her own fault for not declaring it openly the previous evening. Now her fate was sealed.
“I need to speak to your father,” he told her. “About the wedding arrangements.”
Her colour drained at that.
“Really? You’re sure?” she stammered.
“Oh aye,” he assented grimly. “I’ll have you.”
Her eyes went wide at that and he could hear the increased heart rate, the pulse in her neck. His inner beast liked that. Liked it when she got flustered and her hand trembled on his arm. It promised a sweet sexual compliance that licked up his spine and set his own pulse racing. Oh yes, Isolde Merrell was his, maid or no. The thought was a strangely satisfying one considering the cold rationale that had led him into seeking a human wife. If he wasn’t careful he’d lose sight of his original intentions altogether.
Isolde slammed her sister’s bedchamber door and stood with her back plastered against it. Miriam, never an early riser, grumbled raising a tousled head from her sheets. She groaned.
“What time is it?”
“Never mind that,” urged Issy pushing away from the door. “I think Mallon-Garth is quite mad. His wits are disordered.”
Miriam sat straight up in bed.
“He’s withdrawn his offer?” she wailed. “Oh Issy!”
“Far from it,” she answered her sister tight-lipped.
“What?”
“He declares he has every intention of… of having me.”
Miriam’s eyes shone.
“That’s wonderful,” she breathed. “I must confess I was worried he might take it back this morning after the rush had worn off. Did you reapply?”
“What?”
“The tincture! Did you splash some on this morn?”
“No of course not!” she replied in frustration. “I nearly killed him with it last night!”
“What are you babbling about?” demanded her sister flinging off her covers and heading for the water ewer.
Lust Potion For the Alpha Page 2
