The Scottish Selkie

by Cornelia Amiri (Celtic Romance Queen)

  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.”

  He felt a pull at his groin. His heart thumped harder as his erection tightened and swelled with need and want. “Do you want me to touch you?”

  “No and I will not disrobe. I have naught else to wear.” Bethoc batted her lashes unconsciously.

  So this sizzle and crackle between them was not one-sided. He affected her as well. “I can easily remedy that, my lady wife.” He lifted the top of his clothing chest. “After all your tunic and braies are damp.”

  She stepped back as he pulled out an undertunic and dress.

  “Riona bequeathed these garments to you.” Malcolm noticed Bethoc seemed uncomfortable, unsure, she did not hold her head quite as high.

  “Turn your back so I may put them on.”

  “You mean you shall wear both? I thought ladies wontedly slept in under garments only?”

  Bethoc lifted her firm little chin into the air. “I will be fully clothed if we sleep together. I am no wife to you.”

  “But, Bethoc,” he lowered his voice to an overly soothing, too sweet tone, “there is only one pallet.”

  “I will lie on a blanket by the fire.” She pointed to the hearth.

  “If you wish,” Malcolm said, unable to conceal the trace of amusement in his voice.

  Bethoc walked to the hearth and busied herself by adding more logs and kindling. At last, she lit the fire. All of this without one glance at him.

  Malcolm dropped the clothes on the floor at her side, causing her to glance up at him. Her green eyes held a dreamy glow in the firelight. Silent anticipation hung between them as amber flames sparked and crackled in the hearth.

  Bethoc clutched her arms in front of her chest. “You best lay down. You need to rest.”

  “After you, m'lady.”

  “Go outside while I change.” She pointed her head toward the door.

  “If that is your desire.” Malcolm stepped outside the rath and shut the door. He leaned his back against the upright timber wall of the round house, managing to not open the door and peak, but he couldn’t stop envisioni
ng what she would look like fully nude.

  Then he called to the guard Kenneth had sent. “Stay all night, for if she tries to escape it will take both of us to stop her. Forsooth, my Pict wife is a wily one.”

  “Yes, Lord Malcolm,” the guard nodded, “I will man my post, I will.”

  Malcolm knocked on the door. “Bethoc, are you dressed?”

  “You may come in now.”

  Bethoc dropped her gaze, hiding her eyes and her feelings from him, as she stooped down and spread out a green and red plaid by the fire. She lay down, pulled blanket over her and cuddled up.

  She looked so innocent, sleeping there or trying too. This little Pict would soon learn she was no match for him. He would woo the maid to his bed soon enough. No matter how much she hated him. If in truth that was how she felt.

  Malcolm turned toward the fire, he could tell even under the blanket that Bethoc's body stiffened. So she had heard him and she knew there was a guard. Good. Since she realized an escape was for naught, mayhaps she would go to sleep, so he could do the same.

  Malcolm lay down on the rush filled pallet, prepared for a long night, for he would have to keep an eye on his new wife. This wasn't the type of life he had dreamed of. When he drowned, his whole life transformed. His new world reached from the black sea bottom to the foamy surface above and no further. He took pleasure in the freedom of the sea. But he was human now and wed to a woman, though she was more. Bethoc was a warrior, wild and free in her own right.

  He whispered, “I have to tame you for your own sake. You live on land; you must act as ladies do. You have not the means to flee to the wilds of the sea.” Neither have I, until I find my skin.

  She didn't answer. Indeed, she lay so still he thought she must be asleep.

  Malcolm drifted off into a familiar dream of an eerie storm-black sky, monstrous lashing waves, and the horrific roar of the blustery wind as he and Kenneth shivered from chill and fright. Both were so young, only ten and five turns of the year. Malcolm and his cousin clutched the sides of the ox-hide coracle as the waves tossed it about. His knuckles were white, wet, and numb from the frigid water.

  They took the little boat out during the storm, hoping for a plentiful catch of fish. Instead, the sea caught their coracle. Turbulent waves yanked the small boat under. Malcolm screamed as he was flung into the deep, torrent water. Surrounded by the dark, churning sea, he kicked and slapped his way up through the lethally deep water. Desperately, he tried to break through to the surface and breathe.

  He was completely out of air. It was like something snapped. He wanted to scream, he wanted to fight. But he couldn't speak, and he didn't have the energy to move a single muscle. Both, brain and body were shutting down. Dizzy and filled with fear, Malcolm could hardly believe his eyes when several large bull seals swam up to him. The large black creatures encircled him. But they were more than beast. Selkies. Shape shifters of the sea. A soft halo of light encircled each large, dark creature. At that moment, Malcolm felt light, buoyant, full of joy.

  In unison the selkies chanted, “Chosen, Chosen, Chosen.”

  Malcolm was startled by the voice in his head. “You are chosen as a selkie. Become one of us and live. Make the sea your home.”

  Malcolm had answered, “Yes, I will.”

  Suddenly, he opened his eyes. He was wet, covered in sweat. A dream, Malcolm thought. Then he corrected himself, it wasn't a dream, it was a memory. He took a deep breath, realizing he was safe in his rath with the Pict woman. His wife.

  Malcolm swung his head toward the plaid bratt by the fire. No one was there. Bethoc was gone. Malcolm jerked his head toward the kitchen area. Poised on tiptoes by the cupboard, Bethoc tried to walk in stealth back to the hearth.

  Malcolm grabbed the sword he slept with and sat up, brandishing the blade. “Bethoc, put down the knife.”

  “I have no knife.”

  He knew she lied. He rose and aimed the sword toward her, then he moved forward in wide, sure steps. He meant only to scare her into revealing her weapon.

  She pulled her hand from behind her back. In her palm she held an eating dagger she’d stolen from the cupboard.

  Malcolm grabbed it out of her shaking hand. “Bethoc, go to sleep.”

  With a disgruntled toss of her head, she walked back to the bratt and lay down.

  As he lay back down, he wondered how deep her grief went. What was the relationship between her and her sire really like? Did she feel some sort of guilt at his death? And Drostan, how close was she to him? Were they childhood friends? Lovers?

  “Bethoc,” Malcolm asked as he raised his head and leaned on his elbow, “tell me of your father?”

  “No. He is dead.” She wiggled beneath the bratt, lifting her knees to her chest. “You and Kenneth slew him.”

  “Yes, you are here for revenge. But Bethoc, why you?” He stared hard at the green and red blanket that bundled her curled form.

  “He is my father.” She spoke slowly and her voice broke as if she might cry.

  “Are there no male relatives to avenge him nor kin of Drostan who would do the deed?” He shook his head. “A female assassin is odd, even to revenge a father's death.”

  Bethoc turned her head toward him. “Naught but me. No one else wanted anything to do with the murder of Kenneth mac Alpin. They said I would get caught.”

  “Ah, so you mean to say, you are the only addled one in your clan?”

  “No. I am the only brave one.” Bethoc turned on her side and leaned back on her elbow. “Kenneth should not be king of Caledonia.”

  “The throne is his by right. Kenneth's mother was a Pictish princess, he is successor to the throne through her. It is the Pict way to inherit through the mother. No one has better claim to the Pict throne than Kenneth.”

  “He is no Pict.” Bethoc spoke slowly emphasizing each word.

  “Oh, so your children will not be Picts either?”

  “What say you?”

  “Any children we have in this marriage will have a Pict mother and a Scot father.” Malcolm paused as he thought, and a selkie sire at that. “You say Kenneth is not a Pict, even though his mother was a Pictish princess. Would you not deem any children we have to be Picts?”

  “It is not the same. And, there will be no begetting of children from you.”

  “There is no sure way to prevent you from breeding.”

  “Yes there is, for you will not touch me. I will not let you,” she warned in a voice harsh with anger.

  “Ah, Bethoc. We are married. When I am ready to touch you I will.”

  “You barbarian.”

  “I have been called worse. And you are my wife. There is nothing barbaric about bedding one's wife. Any priest will tell you that.”

  “I hate you.”

  “You did not answer my question about our children.”

  “They will be Picts. All my children shall be Picts. But you will not sire any of them.”

  Malcolm chuckled. If only she knew, any children with him would not only be Scot but half selkie besides. Malcolm took a deep breath. “So if our children would be Pict, is Kenneth not Pict through his mother, who was of royal blood?”

  As Bethoc sat up, her features hardened into an expression of rage. “Kenneth had no right to murder my father, my betrothed, and the other earls of Caledonia. He had no right to take the throne by treachery.”

  Malcolm raised himself to a seated position also. “He had no choice at the time. Drostan and the other earls did not give him one.”

  “What mean you?” Her voice grew soft with a tinge of bewilderment.

  “You do not want to know what happened in truth. You choose to believe that silly tale of mac Alpin's treason.”

  There was a long pause of silence. Then in an even tone Bethoc asked, “Malcolm will you tell me what happened that night?”

  “Do you want the truth, Bethoc?”

  “Tell me.”

  He sighed with exasperation. “I shall tell you what I can. I will sp
eak of that night in the hall.” He paused and took a long breath. “Drostan wanted the throne, though he had little claim. He challenged Kenneth. They fought to the death, in front of everyone. Kenneth won. Instead of doing the honorable thing and conceding the crown to Kenneth, the earls went mad. They attacked. We fought back. We outnumbered the Picts and they all died fighting.”

  She rubbed her head as if awakening to the realization. “Is that what happened, in truth?”

  “Yes, I was there.”

  Bethoc leaned her head back. “Drostan wanted to be king. The earls did not favor him. He did not have as strong a claim to the throne as Kenneth. No claim at all. But I will miss him. I have known him since I was a wee child.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “No, but I have never loved anyone.” Wrapped in the plaid bratt, she shrugged. “I was of an age to wed and more than willing to marry Drostan.” Bethoc's eyes took on a faraway look as she spoke. “He was a strong man who could protect me. He made me laugh. He was good enough. Better than many others I could have been betrothed to.” Bethoc glanced askance at Malcolm as if including him in the later group.

  “One never knows whom they might come to wed,” Malcolm added in a mocking tone, “or what.”

  “Do you refer to me as a what? You need not insult me so. Many is the man who would want to have me as his bride,” Bethoc said in a huff.

  “Forsooth, sweetling?” Malcolm gazed from across the room into her green eyes. “But your father, you loved him deeply?”

  “Yes, my da.” Bethoc's voice faded into silence, then after a long pause continued, “I cannot believe he is dead.” She let out a frustrated sigh. “Addle-pated folly, for my sire to fight and die in a fray of Drostan's making. If my father had but stayed his sword, he would yet live.”

  “Every man was drunk. Picts and the Scots have fought for many years, bloodlust rises quickly on both sides.”

  “But it could have been different.” Bethoc's tone grew low and awkward. “The earls should have tried to stop Drostan afore he challenged Kenneth. Though, there is no changing what happened now.” She wrapped the bratt tighter about her as if it could block out the pain.