The Scottish Selkie (5 page)

“Both, Maeve.” Kenneth flashed Malcolm a toothy grin. “The servants are preparing your wedding feast. It will be the grandest banquet ever held at Dalriada.” 

“Kenneth, the last thing I wanted was a bride. Yet I am sure it will be a fitting feast.” 

“Malcolm, I could give the woman to no other man but you. Serve me well by keeping the Pictish Princess out of mischief, but take your pleasure of her as well.” 

Malcolm felt a ripple of excitement at the image those words conjured. “She does appear tempting.”

Chapter Four

“You mean to search me, your bride, for weapons afore attending my own wedding feast?” Bethoc stared at him. If she had a weapon at hand she’d tried to kill him. “You are mad.” 

“I would be mad to think you had not happened upon a weapon to wield against Kenneth.” Malcolm knelt and patted her down from her thighs to her ankles. She abruptly stepped back. “More fool me, I should have sought out a weapon instead of cleaning this hovel. I did not even know the Scot king planned a nuptial feast. We are not truly wed.” 

Malcolm moved forward. “Yes, we are married.” He ran his splayed fingers over her hips.

“Beast!” Bethoc slapped his hands away. “We will not be when a year and a day have passed. If you live that long.” Her head spun with ways to kill him.

 He placed his hands firmly on her waist then scanned his fingers up her body. Her thoughts turned to mush as a delicious jolt of heat shot through her as his palms came to rest on each breast, cupping one in each hand. His warm hands lingered at the sensitive mounds. Their eyes met. Bethoc's skin tingled where his fingers had touched her. A flicker of heat in his eyes revealed his anticipation of the nuptial bedding.

At once, he steeled his features to an expressionless mask and dropped his arms to his side. “Well, you have no weapons.” 

“It is as I told you.”

“Forgive me m'lady, if I do not believe a word you say. I have found assassins often lie.” 

As a surge of rage shot through her, she forgot all about his strange fingers and how they felt on her skin. With a defiant toss of her head, her brownish-red hair rippled across her back. 

“Come, you must not be late to your wedding feast.” 

She snapped her head back to him. “I would not want to miss it.” 

“Riona makes a fine cake. The best in all of Caledonia.” Malcolm flashed a mischievous expression.

Suddenly, she recalled the feel of his fingers upon her skin just moments ago. 

“I have no appetite, for food or otherwise.” But she didn't feel as sure of herself as her words portrayed.

When he was near, heat rose from the pit of her stomach and her knees went as soft as churned butter. It made her hate him all the more; well at least it's what she told herself. 

“It is your feast and the King requests your presence.” 

“He is not my king.” She wanted to shove him, but she doubted she would be able to budge the big lout. His body was as thick as an oak and his brain hard as wood as well. 

He flashed an irritating grin. “Yes, he is.” 

Bethoc folded her arms against her chest and clutched her elbows. The oaf did the same. She sidestepped him and stomped off to the banquet hall. 

By the sound of his footfalls and the way the hackles on her neck rose, she knew he followed. 

When they entered the hall, the din of the feasters’ hurrahs grated on her ears.
The Scot fools! For what reason do they cheer? 

Malcolm clasped her hand and moving in front of her, led her to the banquet table. She resisted the urge to pull out of his grip. It seemed safer to be with him as they passed drunken Scots shouting lewd remarks about the bedding to come this eve. Rather than defend her against the bawdy jibes, Malcolm thanked them all for the well wishes.

Finally they came to their place beside Donald. As Bethoc sat down, she noticed all the men clutched tankards of ale to their chest. They were like Pictish warriors in that way. They had to have their brew. 

The jest grew increasingly lewd and Bethoc felt a flush of heat with each toast. Malcolm's ale breath began to make her feel ill and she turned her head away. Everything about this ridicules façade of a wedding feast was making her addled until her traitorous stomach growled approval at the wafting smell of thick, roasted meat.

Servant girls bearing silver platters of succulent pork were followed by two lads, each carrying a dish of stewed goose, and more lasses with platters of the choice joints of juicy stags. Other servants kept the baskets of bread and the goblets of ale filled. 

Big, barking wolfhounds, running behind the rows of feasters, scooted their large, sprawling bodies under the table to get their fill of scraps. Bethoc tried to be annoyed, but she couldn't help but chuckle as the huge, shaggy dogs tried to crawl beneath the low tables. 

When the human feasters had their fill of meat, two serving boys carried in a golden brown cake, coated with sweet mead. Bethoc knew her mouth had dropped open. Her tongue almost held the taste of fresh butter and wild honey. 

“Riona churns a creamy butter,” Malcolm said as if he knew her thoughts. “The taste is so sweet, it will bring a tear to your eye.” 

“Will it now?” Bethoc gazed at the honeyed cake. She took a deep whiff of the tempting, nectarous aroma. As much as she tried to frown, she couldn't help but smile. It smelled so sweet. Bethoc turned to Riona. “How many spoons of mead did you pour over it?” 

The blonde girl grinned and tilted her chin upward. “Four.” 

Bethoc realized she had run her tongue over her upper lip as if she tasted the honeyed treat. She couldn't help herself. “I will have a slice.” 

Malcolm turned to one of the serving boys. “Fetch a piece for me and my bride.” 

The redhead serving-lad brought back a large slice of lush cake. Malcolm tore off a hunk and held it to Bethoc's lips. The honey icing dribbled down her chin. 

He stared at her chin as if he longed to lick the thick honey from it. He swallowed. His intense gaze reminded her of a starving seal who had just caught a fish.

 He raised his gaze and stared at her lips. “Eat, my lovely wife.”

What could she do? The cake looked so soft, moist, and delicious. She bit into the crumbly, golden treat, then feasted from his hand even as her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Now it's your turn, husband.” She tore a flaky chunk from Malcolm's slice, held it up to his lips, squished it against his mouth, and rubbed it in his face.

The crowd let out a bawdy round of deep guffaws and chortles. Bethoc pealed with a high-pitched triumphant giggle. Everyone in the hall laughed, except Malcolm. 

After wiping his face with both hands, he flicked the mushy cake off his fingers. He grinned at Bethoc. “At least it was fully cooled.” Malcolm turned his head toward Kenneth. “Now, that we have had our sweets, I deem we retire for the night.” 

On-lookers waved their goblets in the air, and between snorts and snickers, they yelled out the most lecherous remarks Bethoc had heard all night.

She was mortified. Bethoc wasn't about to participate in any nuptial bedding. No! This could not be happening. It was a bad dream. It had to be.

As an odd habit, she kicked off her shoes which made her feel more grounded, more in control. She wiggled her bare feet against the hard dirt floor and looked at Malcolm.

“I have not yet finished eating my slice of cake.” 

He smiled mischievously and turned to Kenneth. “It appears my lady wife is hungry for sweets. My king, did you not have cook make black pudding on this, my wedding feast?” 

She did not like the wry grin on Malcolm's face nor the way his eyebrows jiggled. What was he about? The hall drew to a hush as if the on-lookers knew what he meant to do. A strong foreboding rippled through Bethoc as she faced Malcolm and schooled herself to stare him straight in the eye. 

“Black Pudding! Yes, cousin, of course we have black pudding.” Kenneth gestured to the serving boys. “Lads, bring forth pudding for the bridegroom.” The king leaned back in his throne and glanced at Malcolm and Bethoc as if they were famed thespians sent to entertain him.

Each boy held onto one side of a wide, shallow bowl of blood pudding.

Before they could set it on the table, Malcolm ordered, “Bring it over here.” 

Bethoc stepped back on her bare feet. Malcolm turned toward the bowl and grabbed a glob of the thick mix of oats, barley, and pigs’ blood. She could smell the tangy mint used to flavor the fare. She stood, shocked, unable to move, as he brushed his hand full of blood pudding down her neck, and plastered her with black goo, from collar to waist. It was sticky and thick and disgusting.

“You rat bane son of a horn headed Scottish cur.”
 

As Malcolm chuckled, chortled, and snorted, Kenneth heaved with laughter, while Donald almost fell onto the floor, he guffawed so hard. 

Like a kitten in the rain, her body shook with humiliation. She’d make him pay. Husband or not, he had overstepped his bounds. Bethoc no longer had any wont to kill Kenneth. No, Malcolm was her bane now, the man she wanted dead.

“My lady Bethoc, it appears you have stained your gown.” Malcolm's laughter broke off, his eyes smoldering as he stood. “We need retire so you can change out of your soiled tunic.” 

Grabbing her hand, he pulled her with force from the hall. She pulled back, trying to yank her hand out of his grasp, even though the force of her jerks stung her wrist. But the tall, towering, lout tugged her onward, down the path to his rath. 

“Let me go!" Bethoc screamed in her shrillest banshee imitation. 

“I cannot let you go, Lady. You prove too dangerous. If I free you, I will either end up shot with an arrow or accosted by food.” 

“Do not think to touch me. I am not a real wife to you. I will not lay with you.” 

“Good. For in truth, m'lady you reek of pig's blood.” 

The giant, smelly Scotsman had the pluck to insult her. She took a whiff of herself. Her lips quivered. Bethoc ceased her struggle and pealed with laughter. “What a sight I must be. Plastered with pig's blood.” 

Malcolm chuckled and loosened his grip, holding her hand gently. 

“And it is my wedding night.” 

“So it is. Come,” he said with a tinge of humor in his voice.

“Scot, you deserve a bride drenched in pig's blood. I am not washing it off.” Bethoc placed her hands on her hips. 

“Do as you wish,” Malcolm retorted with a challenge in his tone. He swept his eyes down her body and his gaze lingered on her feet. “Bethoc, where are your shoes?” 

“I have no liking for shoes.” With one hand on her hip, she said, “I took them off.” As she turned her long hair flipped over her shoulder and she strode onward toward the rath. 

She knew Malcolm followed, as she heard is laugher all the way to her new home. Upon entering the dark round house, he lit the candles. Momentarily speechless, he took in the condition of the cottage.

Chapter Five

“You did a good job cleaning the rath.” Malcolm couldn't recall it ever smelling so fresh and soapy. It didn't look like the same cottage. 

“Riona and Oengus helped.” Bethoc raised her gaze to his. 

Their eyes locked. Malcolm felt a knot big as an egg in his throat and swallowed hard. Lost in the gleam of interest and curiosity in the bright green depth of her eyes, he could hardly tear his gaze away.

At last he’d managed to glance downward, to the nubile curve of her breast. His palms itched, recalling the weight and feel of the soft flesh in his hands when he’d checked her for weapons. The tightening in his groin almost pained him. He craved to bare those silken mounds and pinch and nibble the ripe buds. His breath grew shallow as he peered at her slim waist flaring into shapely hips and lithe thighs. The black tunic and braes accented the lines of her body and enhanced her mysterious female allure. 

“Your shoes are off, what say you disrobe as well?” 

“But you said I smelt of pigs’ blood and you would not touch me.”