The Scottish Selkie (18 page)

To try to clear her vision, she shut her eyes then opened them. She focused on the man leaning over her. Thank the gods, she could see him clearly. His face seemed familiar. She longed to wrap her arms around him. Gazing into his large, indigo eyes as he called to her, Bethoc knew she belonged with him. She felt safe with him there. 

“Bethoc ... Bethoc.” 

She gasped as realization struck her.
Me? I am Bethoc?
Suddenly, she knew where she was, who she was. “Malcolm!”
My Scot husband. 

Malcolm tenderly brushed his hand against her cheek. Bethoc's skin tingled where he had touched her. 

“Malcolm, there was naught but blackness. No light, or sound, or thoughts. Nothing. What happened?” 

“Ah, Bethoc, you were ill with wound fever. You were in a deep sleep, near the edge of death.” Malcolm's voice broke on the last words as if he choked back a sob. “But you are well.” 

His trembling lips curved into a smile that stretched across his face and rivaled the warmth of the midday sun. “I shall never leave you again.” 

“What do you speak of? You have been with me, have you not?” 

He did not speak, but cast his gaze downward. 

A feeling of dread hit her and she was almost afraid to ask. “How many days have I been ill?” 

Malcolm met her gaze. “You have been in a death-like sleep for two fortnights.” 

“We thought you would never recover.” Riona's tone was soft and sad. 

“‘Malcolm's’ plant saved you.” Kenneth’s mouth eased into a smile. “It is why he left. To seek a magical herb which he knew could heal you.”

“You cured me?” Bethoc asked Malcolm as she tried to grasp all that had happened. 

“Yes, I did.” 

“You saved my life?” It seemed like an old tale a bard would sing of. Bethoc let out a long sigh. “With a magic plant?” 

“Yes. I found it at the bottom of the sea. But I will never leave you again. I will stay here on land.” 

“What do you mean? Of course, you will stay on land. Malcolm, you are not a fisherman, you are a warrior.” A soft chortle escaped Bethoc's lips.
“Still light headed and foggy as I recover, it is I who should say silly or foolish things, not you.”

“In truth, I am not a seaman.” Malcolm flashed a half smile and lowered his voice to a gentle tone. “You best get well now, there is time enough to speak later.” 

“Yes. But Malcolm when we do speak there is something I wish to ask you, for I know you keep a secret from me. Whatever it may be, I will hearten to it. If you will but tell me.” 

“So be it.” Malcolm caressed her forehead with his warm fingers. “I shall tell you soon. You must lay back now and rest. We will talk when you are better.”

She reached out and he clutched at her hand and clasped it strongly in his while he sat at her bedside.

Bethoc felt like she was floating in sunshine.
Malcolm risked his life to seek out a magical plant at the bottom of the sea.
She drifted to sleep with that lovely thought.

Chapter Fourteen

“What say you of this fare? It is bitter on my tongue and the ale is stale,” Malcolm grumbled until the cook barred him from the kitchen. 

After raving about the dullness of his steed's coat, which he attested to the stable boy not feeding the horse well or rubbing him down correctly, the lad began hiding whenever Malcolm entered the stables. 

Every time Malcolm tired to talk to one of his cousins, he couldn't find them, as if Donald and Kenneth vanished into the air at the sound of Malcolm's name. 

He’d become the terror of the castle. All because his skin itched to touch Bethoc one moment and yearned for fresh salt water the next. Bethoc's face was forever in Malcolm's mind except for those times when he saw only the sea and the life within it. When he wasn't at Bethoc's sick bed, Malcolm climbed onto a rock off shore, and in his human form, he barked as white foam waves lapped around him. The rest of his days were spent in chaste visits to Bethoc's bedchamber, as the healer said she was not yet fully recovered. 

Malcolm stood at her bedside, watching over her as she slept. He wrapped his fingers around a stout beaker of ale on Bethoc's bedside table and took a swig. Hardy heather-ale was one thing he missed about life on land, Bethoc was the other. 

There was not a female selkie in all the seven seas with as much spirit as Bethoc. Her face which held both beauty and strength recovered a pink tinge hue to bear out how much her health had improved. As she slept peacefully, he stroked her soft hair with his fingers. Malcolm's musing was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. 

Father Degnan, in his loose black robe, stood at the doorway. “Good day, Malcolm. How fares your lady wife?” 

“She grows stronger. She will be well soon, Father.” 

“Then it is true.” Father Degnan's eyebrows rose in a prominent slant. 

“Yes.” Malcolm smiled thinking Degnan was speaking of Bethoc's recovery. 

“I hear tell you bear a miraculous plant from the sea?” The priest's blue eyes sparkled with wonder. 

“Oh, you have heard of yon seafire, have you?” Malcolm pointed to the chest by Bethoc's bed where the pouch lay. 

“It is a plant known only to the selkies. It cured Bethoc, it did.” 

“Do you still have some?” Father Degnan gazed at the pouch. “The miracle herb?” 

“Yes.” Malcolm paused then added, “I have some. It is not easy to come by. Only a selkie can seek it out.”

Father Degnan crossed himself to ward off any fey magic. “I have never heard tell of it.”

 Malcolm grabbed the leather pouch Donald left on the chest. “No Father. No human has heard of it afore. In truth, it grows at the bottom of the sea.” Malcolm stepped up to the priest who cupped his wrinkled hands. “Hither, have a look.” 

Malcolm dumped the rest of the Seafire and saltwater into Father Degnan's cupped palms. 

A rapt smile filled the priest's face. “It is resplendent.” Father Degnan gazed at what was left of the fiery ball and its amber petals. “Come Malcolm.” With his hands still cupped, the priest nodded toward the hall, gesturing to him to follow. 

Malcolm walked with the priest down the hall, out the fortress, to the chapel, and into a small chamber where herbs hung from the wooden rafters. Various scents mingled into a heady, aromatic barrage. Malcolm sneezed from the mixed smells. 

Father Degnan gestured to Malcolm to grab a clay bowl off the table. The priest turned his hands over and dumped the seafire into the earthen bowl. With a dull clunk, he laid a clay lid on top. 

“It is a miracle. A cure for patients in the deathwatch of wound fever. A blessing to a myriad of men and more.” 

“I am glad Father. Yet, I cannot fathom such a wee portion curing a myriad of men. If I were but able to do more?” 

“You may. You need glean more Seafire for the people of Alba. Scots and Picts alike, my son.”

“Father, the bottom of the sea is a labyrinth of many creatures. Gathering Seafire is a bold task. Even if I find it, it is spiked with poison.” 

“But, my son, so many have died from wound-fever. You have seen young men mortally wounded in battle. Could not the seafire have saved them?” 

“Yes, it could have.” Malcolm realized he couldn't say no. 

Father Degnan was right. He would save lives, not to mention, it would give him a chance to amend his ways of late with his heated temper erupting time and time again. 

“Yes I shall seek more Seafire after Kenneth's coronation as the true King of Alba.” 

“My thanks, Lord Malcolm. Bless you.” 

“As with you, Father Degnan. It is an honored quest. The Seafire cure shall save the lives of both Picts and Scots.” 

Malcolm clapped the priest on the back. Then loudly cleared his throat and leaned toward him. “I will need gold.” 

Father Degnan's eyebrows arched as if he was shocked. “Ah, yes. You will need payment.” 

“No priest. It is not to pay me. Let us say it is the sea's due.”“I do not fathom what you speak of as the sea's due. Yet, I know you would not ask for gold from the church if you did not have need of it.” Father Degnan nodded his head. “Our move to Scone has brought us many riches. I shall bestow upon you the gold communion chalice from Dalriada as we have found a new one here in Scone.” 

The priest picked up a gold cup, simple yet glorious in its craftsmanship. Its only adornment was a Celtic knot design etched at the base of the stem. The gleaming, warm rich gold of the deep bowl was molded in the rounded look of a caldron. Gazing at it, Malcolm felt fulfilled
as if the cup could never be emptied. 

The chalice was heavy in Malcolm's palm. Yes, it would make a fitting sacrifice to the sea god, Manannan Mac Lir, but he did not want to tell the Christian priest what he planned to do with the sacred goblet. 

In gratitude for the gift he had bestowed upon him, Malcolm said, “Father, my thanks. Know this, I would not ask if I did not need it for the seafire.” 

“I know this, my son. I thank you for helping the good people of Alba.” 

“Yes father.” Malcolm wrapped his fingers tightly around the chalice and held it at his side. “But now I must take my leave for I am to sup with my lady wife this eventide.” 

“Ah, then you must hasten.” Father Degnan grinned.

* * * *

A knock at her chamber door woke Bethoc. “Who goes there?” She eased into a sitting position in her bed, laden with plaid bratts and scattered fur pelts. 

“M'lady, Steward Fergus, sent us to help you.” 

“Yes, enter.” Bethoc stood and gestured the servants into her bedchamber. “I bid you, go to lord Malcolm's chamber and move his belongings here.” Bethoc pointed to a spot by the bed. “Put his chest hither.” She walked to the corner of the room, and stretched her arms out to the size and width of the smaller chest. “Place the coffer thither.” 

“Yes, m'lady,” the taller man replied, then he and the other two bowed to Bethoc. 

As the servants exited to do Bethoc's bidding, Riona entered the bower. 

“Lord Malcolm is moving into your chamber?”

 “Yes.” Bethoc let out an audible sigh. “Though he knows it not ... Not yet.” 

Riona giggled. 

“It is our chamber. Mine and my lord husband's. And tonight ... well.”

Bethoc's mind was overtaken by the image of Malcolm's tall, broad frame, and his deep, dark, liquid eyes. God help her. Those eyes. A soul could get lost in his gaze. She could stare for an eternity into his eyes.

Riona sat down on the bed. “This eve?” 

“Yes, at night tide we will make love anew.” Bethoc couldn't believe she said that aloud. 

“Yes.” Riona winked. “I will see how cook is coming with tonight's fare.” She flashed Bethoc a mischievous smile before exiting the bower. 

As Bethoc shut her eyes, envisioning Malcolm, a surge of heat ran up the sides of her body. Her flesh burned. Bethoc bit her lower lip, longing to gaze into her husband's eyes as she lay with him. 

Anticipating the night to come, she scattered fresh rushes across the floor, and placed white beeswax candles throughout the chamber, then lit every one. She planned a private meal in their bower and a night of love like the one they had in the cozy rath in Dalriada. Finally, she’d persuade Malcolm to tell her his secret. There would no longer be anything between them and they could begin their life anew. 

Riona carried in a platter of succulent shellfish, sweet meats, and salmon coated in dill. As Bethoc set the food on the table by the bed, the door flew back. Malcolm stood there gazing at Bethoc with those fathomless blue eyes.

Heaven help her.

His hair, wet from a recent swim, hung down in an unkempt fashion, giving him an even wilder and more wanton appearance than usual. Malcolm's presence struck her like a lightning bolt, the jolt of his heat and energy surged through her veins.

With fluid strides, he stepped closer and looked down at her. The sensuous light in his eyes sparked a fire within her. Smothering a groan, she stood motionless, peering up at him. Upon hearing a clicking sound, she knew Riona had left, closing the door behind her. Now, alone with Malcolm,