The Scottish Selkie (10 page)

Protecting the stone was one thing; she wouldn't turn her back on the sacred jewel of destiny. But this man was quite another. She had come to have feelings for him. This meant, once she carried the La Fail to Scone, Bethoc had to leave. Disappear into the bogs and woods where Malcolm would never find her. Being forced to wed a Scot was one thing, but loving a Scot willingly was quite another. She had to hide her feelings or she would bring shame onto the name of her dead father. She had to honor her father’s memory and stay true to the Picts. Bethoc and Malcolm were not meant to be. No matter how fast her heart beat or how hot her skin burned whenever she was near him. 

When a cool breeze brushed her skin, she grabbed the covers tighter. Feeling the scratchiness of the wool, Bethoc realized she was nude. Grabbing her under-dress off the floor, she slipped it on, smoothed out the wrinkles with her hands, then pulled a tunic dress over it. Bethoc picked up a silver brush and swept it down her long, dark mane. She searched under and around the bed for her shoes, but only found one. Deeming it too much trouble to hunt for the other, she went barefoot. 

Upon glancing at the window, she saw Riona walking toward the rath. With buoyant, silent steps, Bethoc went to meet the maiden. Pressing her index finger against her lips, Bethoc whispered, “Malcolm is sleeping.” 

“Yes, m'lady. I came to see if you have clothes in need of washing.” 

“Yes, wait here.” Bethoc tiptoed quietly as she gathered clothes together. “I will come with you.” 

Once outside, she pressed the heavy basket of clothes against her chest. “Have you a spare washing stone?” 

“No, m'lady, but we shall find one at the creek.” 

Bethoc walked at Riona's side, through the morning mist, down the path to the teal stream. Finding the smokeless air soothing, Bethoc breathed in deeply and shook her neck to pull out the morning kinks. 

Though the path was not long, it was narrow and winding. A few ancient relics, thrown in the bottom of the creek before the Scots became Christians, were strewn across the mossy bank. Broken pieces of ancient jewelry and vases had lain there for years, adding to the serenity and sacredness of the meandering water. 

Riona gestured with her hand to stop at a bend in the stream. Smooth white stones of various sizes dotted the grassy bank.

While searching for a suitable washing stone, Bethoc cocked her head to the side and asked, “Riona, do you know why I came to Dalriada?” 

“Your father and your betrothed were among the seven earls. You vowed to avenge their deaths by killing our king.” 

“I am surprised you knew of this. You have been ever so kind to me.” 

“Ah, we ken you were mad with grief.”

Bethoc felt insulted. “What say you, mad with grief?” 

“Yes, Malcolm told us, he did.” Riona smiled sweetly. 

Bethoc felt her jaw clench. “So rather than call me an assassin, he said I was a bereaved madwoman.”

* * * *

Malcolm stretched out his legs as he woke. His groin swollen and stiff with need, he awkwardly eased into to a sitting position and glanced toward the bed. “Bethoc?” Where was she? Slowly, he scanned the room from the kitchen to the hearth. “Bethoc,” he called in a firm voice. “Bethoc,” he yelled. The woman would be the death of him.

Happens she fled to Scone to gather a rebel band to fight? No, even she was not that addle-pated. The reign of the Picts had come to an end. There was no a leader braver or more powerful than Kenneth
.
Malcolm leapt out of bed and yelled again. Bethoc didn't answer. S
he did appear to have run away
Grabbing his tunic and braies off the floor, he dressed and sprinted to the palace stables.
Was she on foot or had she stolen a horse or taken hers?
He would soon find out.

A quick search of the stalls showed no horses were missing and the groom hadn't seen her. Malcolm recalled Bethoc's friendship with Riona, and rushed to the feasting hall. Mayhaps the steward's lass had seen her this morn. 

Malcolm barged into the hall and greeted the steward. “Good morning to you, Fergus. I seek Riona?” 

“She went to your raff to help with the washing.” 

“Washing? So the lassies are at the creek?”

“I would think so.” 

Malcolm felt foolish. “Good day to you, Fergus.” He did not have problems like this in the sea. This woman was as much a curse to him as his cousin was, one stole his pelt, the other robbed him of his good sense. 

Malcolm headed at a brisk pace down the path to the winding creek. He came to a sudden halt upon spotting Bethoc. She held a bundle of clothes pressed against her chest, a cake of soap in her hand. They glared at each other for a long moment. 

“Malcolm, what mean you, telling everyone that I was mad with grief?” 

“What mean you?” Standing but a foot span apart from her, he exclaimed, “Bethoc, I woke and you were gone. I knew not what happened to you. After last night I thought you had run off. That I frightened you.” 

“What say you?” 

“I almost bedded you, woman.” 

“No!” Bethoc felt warmth rise to her face but she fought to hide her feelings, her memory of how much she had wanted him last night. How much she wanted him now. 

Riona stood. “Mayhaps I should leave you two alone.” 

Malcolm bobbed his head in agreement. 

“No.” Bethoc waved her head side to side. 

“Yes, for I need take my morning bath.” Malcolm pulled the tunic over his head and shook out his shoulder length hair. 

“Good day.” Riona turned and scampered back toward the village. 

“Riona, come back,” Bethoc called out to her retreating friend. 

God's teeth, Bethoc looks so comely.
The hard bulge, stiff and swollen with need for her, proved his ardor had not cooled. But now was not the time. A dunk in the cold creek might help. Malcolm grabbed a cake of soap, unclasped the belt at his waist, flung it to the ground, and stripped off his braies.

Bethoc pulled the dripping clothes out of the creek, and one by one laid them on large boulders at her side. Malcolm sat down in all his bareness on a large rock at creek side and tugged off his boots. 

Bethoc shut her eyes. “Put your clothes on.” 

Malcolm let out a deep chuckle and waded into shallow water. A chill shot up his spine. At the center of the stream the water came up to his waist. He bent down so he was covered to his shoulders. 

When Bethoc opened her eyes, her gaze fell on Malcolm's face, just above the sparkling water.

 “What are you grinning at?”

Bethoc blushed. “I was but thinking of Scone. When do we leave?” 

“Soon.” Malcolm dipped his head down in the cold water and quickly brought it up. 

“Do you think we will have any trouble?” Bethoc darted her gaze back and forth, trying not to glance at him. 

“No, no one would dare steal the Stone of Destiny.” Malcolm shook the excess water from his hair. 

“Yes, for it is the stone Jacob laid his head on,” Bethoc absently mumbled as she watched Malcolm soap his hair. 

The thick lather was like a soothing balm to his scalp. He dunked down into the creek and rinsed off the soap bubbles. Refreshed, he threw his head back and combed his fingers through his raven mane, flicking the water from his hair. The soft, shifting creek sand felt so good beneath his feet, between his toes. How he missed his life in the sea. 

Malcolm felt the heat of Bethoc's gaze and stood, exposing only his upper body, for his legs and private parts were covered by the stream. She stared at his shoulders and chest as if she were unable to turn away. 

Bethoc blinked and exhaled. “I have my washing to tend to.” 

Malcolm chuckled in a deep reverberating tone. Bethoc hastily glanced down at the wet clothes she had grabbed.

“Do you need help with your washing?” Malcolm winked. 

“No! Stay in the water.” 

Malcolm waded to the shore with the strong, forceful strides of a lion hunting prey. Bethoc's lids slipped down over her eyes as her face deepened to a vivid pink. She stood and stepped back. “Malcolm.” 

“Anything wrong with the way I look?” Malcolm's blue eyes flickered with simmering heat. 

“Put your clothes on, you rat's bane ruffian.” 

Malcolm laughed. “As you wish.” He strode naked to the bush where his garments and boots lay.

“And they say we Picts are heathen,” Bethoc gibed. Her face flushed the shade of a blooming rose. 

Malcolm longed to kiss her cheeks and deepen the blush. 

She turned her head. Malcolm tugged on his breeches and tunic. When she glanced his way again he was fastening his belt. 

“Help me with me boots.” Malcolm flashed a sheepish grin. 

“Go in your bare feet. I care not.” 

“Ah, m'lady,” Malcolm said in a feigned tone of hurt as he sat down on a boulder and pulled on a boot.

Bethoc's dark pupils rolled to the side of her eyes. Malcolm pushed his foot in the other boot and stood. “And here I was willing to help you.” 

“I do not need your help, you big lout.” Bethoc glanced down at the pile of clothes that still needed to be washed. 

“You go about your washing then and have a good day of it. I need speak to Kenneth afore we leave for Scone on the morrow.” 

“The morrow?” 

“Yes.” Malcolm paused and took in the unmatched, willowy comeliness of her body as she dunked another piece of clothing into the cool water. He took a deep breath. His ardor had not cooled at all. But there was nothing that could be done for it until tonight.

* * * *

As Malcolm turned into the chamber off the round hall, the first person he saw was Kenneth's brother. 

Donald grinned broadly. “Ready for Scone are you, Malcolm?”

“That I am.” 

Kenneth sat in a wide high back chair with his hands clasped in his lap as he stared off in space. “Hail Malcolm.” The king's mouth slowly curled into a half smile. “The time hath come. Soon both Picts and Scots will bow to me as high king of Alba.”

“You are the true sovereign of all Alba,” Malcolm agreed.

“No longer do the Scots live under Pict tyranny. Picts and Scots shall be ruled with the same justice. The fair and just law of King Kenneth mac Alpin.” Donald clutched his tankard and toasted his brother. 

Kenneth grinned, grabbed his goblet off the table, and lifted it high. “To Alba.” 

Malcolm picked up a full goblet, “Long live the King of Alba.” 

All three downed the golden ale with a flourish. 

“We shall enter Scone two days hence.” Malcolm refilled his cup till it brimmed of heady ale. 

Donald smiled at his brother. “Father Degnan will crown you upon the Stone of Destiny the next day.” 

“In truth.” Kenneth grinned and glanced at Malcolm. “Father Degnan will ride with you and your Pict princess. He will drive the wagon which will hold the stone and the marble chair it rests on.” 

“It is good.” Malcolm nodded.

“Yes.” Donald leaned back in his chair. “In days long past, the prophet Jeremiah and two princesses, daughters of the line of Jacob, escaped Judah with a sacred stone.” 

Malcolm watched the movement of Donald's hands and fingers as they curled and fluttered in rapid gestures with the telling of the story. 

“They traveled the seven seas until they came to Erin. There the Jerusalem princess, Tea Tephi, wed the high king of Tara.” Donald picked up the clay pitcher and poured his tankard full of ale. He took a long draw, clearly enjoying it, and Malcolm took the story from there.

“The Stone of Destiny was honored at Tara as it had been at Jerusalem. It came to be called the Lia Fail.” Malcolm took a deep breath. “The stone sung for the rightful king. So all the kings of Tara were crowned upon the holy relic.” Malcolm leaned back in his chair. “Many years after, Fergus the Great left Erin and bore the stone to Dalriada. It is here that St. Columba himself crowned King Aidan on the Stone. So it came to be that all Scot kings were crowned on the Stone of Destiny. King Alpin as well.”