“Yes, my lady wife. Not only shall you live in this rath, you shall clean it.” Malcolm walked over to the web-draped cupboard in search of a broom.
“Never.” Bethoc's face skewed into an expression of utter distaste.
“You need to keep busy.” Holding a broom in one hand, he thrust it at her.
“Sweep.” If he knew it was this filthy, he wouldn't have brought her here. The last time he stepped through that door was before he drowned. Afore his real life begun.
“You are mad.” Bethoc's lips drew up into a tight pout as she glared at him.
“No doubt, but start sweeping. This rath has to be ready by eventide, so you best make haste.”
“Where are the servants?” Bethoc looked around as if she'd find them hiding.
“You will need someone, will you not?” Malcolm turned to her. “I forgot it takes sweat and toil to live here.”
Bethoc's eyes grew wide. She planted one hand on her cheek, and glared at him as if she thought he was crazy.
Oh, little mistress superior, I could wash that smirk off your face. How he wanted to disclose his secret, to throw her entire reasoning off, and send her into a state of shock. But the fun would have to wait; they needed to get the rath cleaned by tonight.
Bethoc interrupted his thoughts, tapping her little bare foot on the floor.
“I shall find you a servant.” Malcolm pointed at the broom. “Start sweeping.”
She set her hands on her hips. “I shall sweep if it pleases me.”
Malcolm poked his head out the door and called for help. “Oengus.”
“This sty you call a rath has fallen into ill repair. In truth, it is little more than a hovel. Cannot your cousin, the king, bequeath to you a more fitting dwelling?”
“What say you? It is a fine home. It was my sire's, and my grandsire's before him. It is a grand rath. Its value would be equal to a herd of twenty four cattle.”
Clutching the broom in one hand, she placed the other on her hip as she scanned the large, round room. “Scot, you are daft. You would not get one scrawny cow for this hovel. I would not give you as much as a sack of wheat for it.”
Malcolm made a balking sound, but before he could speak, a tall, broad-chested man squeezed through the doorway.
“Lord Malcolm, I did not know you were trading your rath. I wish to purchase it. I will give you a salted pig, if I can move in on the morrow.”
“Oengus are you daft? The rath is worth twenty four cows and it is not for sale.” Malcolm pointed to Bethoc. “Watch her.” He left his bride with Oengus and headed back to Kenneth's stronghold.
* * * *
Bethoc took a good look at the man before her, noticing his fat face, bright orange hair, bulging blue eyes, and a physique closer to that of a bear than a man. He could be summed up in two words, big and dumb. But she needed help and he was it.
Her gaze fell onto the chairs. Bethoc folded her arms across her chest. “Oengus, can you mend wood?”
He flashed an almost toothless grin. “Yes, m'lady. I am skilled at mending.” He picked up a chair, looked at it, then set it down. “Come with me, m'lady, as I fetch my tools.”
“No, you go on your way. I shall stay in the rath. If I am to sleep here this eve, I have a lot of work to do.” With broom in hand Bethoc stared at the dust covered floor, crusted in spots with dried mud.
“No. Malcolm told me to guard you.”
Bethoc let go of the broom and it fell with a thud. “Yes, then I shall come.”
Walking beside Oengus, Bethoc took in her surroundings. Geese honked and chickens clucked as they pecked the dirt, while children wrapped in bright plaid bratts ran across her path.
Oengus ducked into his small, round hut. Bethoc followed. His belongings consisted of tools, an old wooden clothing chest, and a rush pallet. A stack of wood set in the center served as his hearth.
With a mallet and an axe in hand he asked, “Ready, m'lady?”
Bethoc nodded and followed him back. “Oengus, have you known Malcolm long?”
“Yes, all my life,” he said as they neared the rath.
As they approached the door Bethoc asked, “How long has he dwelt in this rath?”
“Since he was a wee lad.” Oengus opened the door and Bethoc followed him inside. “But he has not been here for many a year.” He came to an abrupt stop and cast his eyes downward. “Since his father's death.”
“Did his sire die in battle?”
“Yes. In the same fray in which King Alpin was slain. Both men's heads hung on spikes at Scone.”
“Oh.” Bethoc gulped. Happens, it would be best if she avoided that bit of history. “His father's death must have been hard on him. Mayhaps it is why? I mean he seems to fathom my grief. My father was killed by Kenneth mac Alpin's treachery.”
“Treachery?” Oengus smiled. “Some fool in the market said the hall has trap doors which open to bottomless pits. Such folly.” He let out a deep chuckle.
Remembering she had believed the same, Bethoc had never felt so stupid. But that feeling soon turned to anger. She placed one hand on her hip. “It is plain enough, the hall has no hidden pits, yet seven earls came in peace, were plied with ale, then killed. Death is not the customary end to a royal feast.”
Oengus stood still as he gazed at her. “M'lady, I am sad to hear of the loss of your sire and your betrothed. But Kenneth did not kill them. They died fighting.” He sat down on the dirt floor beside the chairs and began working. “Kenneth and Malcolm are good men. You will come to find it so, now that you live with us Scots.”
Never would she think of Kenneth or Malcolm as good. But Bethoc had to put her thoughts of those two aside, and clean this rath if she was to sleep here.
A sigh of exasperation escaped her lips as she picked up the broom. Bethoc swept to and fro; the rustling sound of the straw brushing the hard packed floor calmed her. She had been through much in the last days, from attempting to murder the King of Dalriada to marrying a Scot.
She heard footfalls coming up the path. Malcolm's tall frame filled the doorway. “Fixing the chairs? Good man, Oengus.”
“In truth, is the Pictish princess sweeping?” Malcolm's brows arched in surprise.
Bethoc wanted to hit him with the broom.
A young girl with blondish red hair followed Malcolm into the rath. He gestured to the lass. “This is Riona, the steward's daughter. She will serve you in ... whatsoever ladies need help with.”
The fool, Bethoc thought. The tall handsome fool that she had trouble taking her eyes off. It did not matter. She would soon be rid of him.
She glanced at the young girl at his side, mayhap four and ten years with a sweet face dotted with freckles.
“Merry met, Riona.”
“M'lady, how can I serve you?” The girl curtsied.
“Mayhaps you can dampen a rag and wipe down the cupboard.” Riona rushed to the task.
Malcolm stepped up to Bethoc. “I can hardly believe it. The floor is clean.”
Grasping the broom, Bethoc held her arm out to the side and glared at him. She didn't want to say anything. She wanted to take the broomstick and knock that smirk off his face.
“Yes. I've swept, Riona's dusting, Oengus is mending your chairs, what work are you to do on your home?”
“It looks like there is naught for me to do.” Malcolm spun around. “You three have it well in hand.” With a tilt of his chin he smirked. “I shall go and see how I can serve Kenneth.”
“I thought you were to guard me at all times.”
“The task is taken care of sweetling.” Malcolm flashed a wide, aggravating smile, then nodded at Oengus. “Remember what I said. It is all right to kill her.”
“Yes,” the burly fellow answered in a serious tone.
“Have a jolly time,” Bethoc sarcastically called out to Malcolm.
“Yes and you as well,” Malcolm retorted as he headed out the door.
* * * *
Knowing Kenneth would want wo
rd on what the would-be assassin was up to, Malcolm went to the hall. The king and his brother sat at a table scattered with pieces of vellum, discussing the new kingdom of Alba. A jar of ink and a writing quill set off to Kenneth's side, a pitcher of ale and a few tankards at Donald's right.
Kenneth leisurely stretched his long legs out on the bench. “Malcolm, how do you fair as a wedded man?”
“The Pictish princess has not killed me yet.”
The king's green eyes grew openly amused. “Not yet?”
“She has not even tried.” Malcolm grinned as he plopped down beside Kenneth.
“Ha, I am sure she will remedy that this eventide.” Donald took a gulp of ale.
“Yes. It should make for an interesting wedding night.” Malcolm picked up a cup and pitcher and poured a drink.
“You shall love every minute of it.” The king flashed a toothy grin.
“In truth Kenneth, I will. Save for the day they now call mac Alpin's treason, it is the first time I have not been bored since I returned.”
“I am glad. I know it is hard for you.” Donald stood and shrugged his shoulders as if he didn't know what else to say to him, then he tilted his head toward Kenneth. “I know you need to speak to Malcolm, I will see to the men.” Donald bid his cousin and brother good day.
Kenneth leaned his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his fisted hand. “I have set a task for you. I bestow on you the sacred duty of delivering the Stone of Destiny, from Dalriada to Scone.” He raised his arm off the table and curled his fingers into the shape of a rock. “Malcolm, I will be crowned upon that stone.”
“Kenneth, I do not know what to say.” The La Fail which Fergus himself brought from Ireland. The very stone Jacob laid his head on. The most precious relic in the whole of the world, entrusted to him. “I will not fail you.”
“This I know. Father Deanna said the stone chose you as its guardian. It is said otherworld relics are drawn to creatures of the fey.”
They stared into each other's eyes. They played together as children and fought together in battle as men. Though he had been forced by Kenneth to leave his other life, Malcolm's first desire, his first dream, was of a united Alba. Now he would forever be part of that dream as the man who bore the La Fail to Scone.
Kenneth picked up his tankard and made a toast, “To Alba.”
Malcolm lifted his glass high, “Alba.” He poured the golden liquid down his throat. If only his father had lived to see this day. Malcolm took another deep gulp and turned to Kenneth.
“I wanted to ask you, did my sire know I survived drowning through the magic of old? Did he know I dwelt in the sea with my kind?”
“Yes. Happy he was that you still lived.” Kenneth shrugged. “Albeit in a different form.”
“Good.” Malcolm's throat tightened. “I miss him.”
“You have served me well, Malcolm. At great sacrifice to your own freedom. It does not go unnoticed.” Kenneth patted him heartily on the back.
Embarrassed but pleased, he nodded and changed the subject. “My bride is cleaning the rath.” Malcolm let out a sigh. “It will be strange to no longer sleep in the hall.”
“Yes, but I think you will enjoy her company better than that of snoring soldiers.” Kenneth's eyes sparkled with a glint of humor.
“Yes, I do not think I will be sleeping enough this eve to do any snoring.”
“You had best not, yon vixen will slay you in your sleep for sure.”
“Yes, I mean to keep an eye on her.” That he would. Bethoc's creamy skin was a comely contrast to her long, dark mane which shined like a seal's pelt. Her almond shaped eyes glistened like a hundred tiny shards of emeralds. A man, even a beast, could lose his soul in the depths of her gaze. And those soft, ample lips, a tempting raspberry hue—Malcolm could kiss those lips forever and a day. The woman was sheer beauty. Like the moon at night, her essence was both ethereal and wild. He could not help but keep an eye on his new wife.
A servant girl bowed. “M'lord King, Cook asked if you want stag or boar for the feast.”
“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 a
le 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.
The Scottish Selkie Page 3
