The Scottish Selkie

by Cornelia Amiri (Celtic Romance Queen)

  “What reason have you, to tell me this?” Almost afraid of the answer, but too curious to hold her tongue, she licked her lip, feeling like ale swished about in a goblet.

  “You and I have a mission, entrusted with the stone, we carry it from the Dalriada castle to Scone. There in the heart of Caledonia, Kenneth will be crowned on the sacred relic.”

  “You ask for my aid in this?” Bethoc released her pent up breath.

  “Yes. You will watch my back and if anything happens to me, the care of the stone will fall to you.” Malcolm's brow creased as if he was lost in secret thoughts. After a long pause he continued. “I know it is a surprise. There is so much you still do not know of what being wed to me means.”

  “You would trust me with such a quest?” Bethoc couldn't take her gaze off the sacred rock. Her skin prickled from the magical energy it thrust into the air.

  “You have a good heart, Bethoc, albeit misguided at times; it is strong and true. You feel the power of the stone. It has already claimed you for it knows you are my mate.”

  “I am Pict. This is a sacred stone of the Scots. Why would it claim me as its guard?”

  “It is my giest. Whether it be called a curse or a blessing, the stone chose me as its guardian, as my wife it is your giest as well.” Malcolm cocked his head to the side.

  Bethoc felt addled. She rubbed her forehead so hard, her fingers almost dug into her skin. Bethoc was to guard the Stone of Destiny all the way to Scone so Kenneth could be crowned king of the Picts. What had happened to her? She’d come here to kill the King, Kenneth mac Alpin, instead she’d married his champion and protector of the most powerful relic of the Scots, the Lia Fail. Something had gone terribly wrong. But she could do nothing about it. The strangest thing was she felt protecting this new united kingdom of Alba was the right thing for her and her people. Had she gone mad as well?

  “Touch the stone, Bethoc,” Malcolm gently commanded.

  Splaying her fingers over the stone, she let them fall ever so gently on its smooth, yellow surface. Power coursed from the rock into the bone and marrow of her hand. Blazing heat traveled up her arm to her shoulders, into her neck, to the tip of her head, and the prickling roots of her hair.

  “It is a holy relic to be sure.” Bethoc nibbled her lower lip, unable to say anything else, so overcome by the power of the stone.

  “You are part of it now. We will defend the stone well as we bear it to Scone.”

  Even after she withdrew her fingers from the Lia Fail, Bethoc's palm tingled.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Wild, hearty, wonderful.” Bethoc clasped her hand to her chest. “Thank you for showing it to me.”

  It must have been the energy emitted by the stone, which drew her closer to Malcolm as she stared into his dark, ethereal eyes. Before Bethoc realized it, she’d raised her hands, and her palms rested against his hard chest.

  Malcolm bent his head to Bethoc's. His breath blew hot against her lips. Their mouths touched. Bethoc melted against him, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders. Her hands squeezed against his hardened biceps. His lips pressed firmly, hungrily upon her mouth, burning with the fiery kiss.

  They released their lips but still held each other in a tight embrace, gazing into each other's eyes.

  Malcolm smiled. “Bethoc, would you like to dine with me now?”

  Though she could hardly speak, she managed to squeak out, “Yes.”

  They walked to the hall and partook of a noon repast of hare stew, brown bread, and hard yellow cheese.

  After they both downed a cup of ale, Malcolm asked, “What weapons do you wield Bethoc, beside bow and arrow?”

  “I have used the sword in play. My father taught me when I begged him as a child. He trained me with a wooden sword. I have used a real one, but I am no master.”

  “Well, if you have basic skills I can teach you to master the sword.”

  “You would school me in sword play?” That seemed odd, considering she’d tried to kill his king. Perhaps he did trust her.

  “I would love to teach you sword play, m'lady.” Malcolm's eyes gleamed, making it impossible to miss the double meaning of his words.

  Bethoc knew her cheeks must be red, and a moist yet fiery sensation arose between her thighs as well. Malcolm’s dark, enthralling eyes called to her, and she could taste his tongue on hers as she remembered their burning kiss.

  “Would you like to learn?”

  “Sword play?” Last night she hated Malcolm, but now she wanted to be with him, near him. What was wrong with her? Had that confounded sacred stone of the Scots cast a spell over her?

  “Yes, let us return to the practice yard.”

  She pushed back the now empty tankard of ale. “It would be my pleasure to best you with any weapon.” Bethoc swung her feet over the bench and stood.

  “Mine as well.” Malcolm rose, grinning boldly.

  Bethoc was always ready for a challenge. Maybe too ready, she chided herself as she followed him out of the hall and across the green to the practice yard.

  * * * *

  Malcolm nodded his head toward her discarded shoes.

  Bethoc ignored him, keeping her feet bare.

  Malcolm approached Oengus, still hard at work sharpening his sword skills. “Oengus, have you two practice swords we may use?”

  The big man nodded and walked toward a small hut used as an armory for practice weapons. He came back carrying two long swords carved of white oak. After handing one each to Bethoc and Malcolm, he gestured to the side of the field. “I think I will make myself comfortable underneath yon Hawthorne tree.”

  The heat of the sun bore down on Bethoc as she faced Malcolm. Holding the hilt with both hands, she wiggled her bare toes into the dirt. Nibbling on her bottom lip, she stepped in, raised the wooden weapon, and swung downward.

  Malcolm didn't have to block it. The blade fell short. “If this sword was made of iron and we stood upon a real battle, you would lay dead.” He flashed a wry grin. “Do not let that happen.” Malcolm took a broad step back and spread his arms for emphasis. “Distance.” In a low tone he said, “Keep perfect distance.”

  Bethoc wrapped her fingers around the smooth hilt, neither too loose nor too tight. Raising the wooden weapon, she forced all her concentration into her movements. She stepped forward on the balls of her feet, from left to right, then right to left, never using one foot more than the other, while swinging the sword in a weaving motion.

  “You learn well.”

  “My thanks, Scot.” After a long pause Bethoc added, “I am good, am I not?”

  “I would not want to spar with you.” He paused, with a gleam of eagerness in his dark eyes. “Not with this sword.”

  Bethoc's gaze fell to the bulge just below Malcolm's belt buckle. Her cheeks burned. She gulped, then sliced her wooden weapon through the air.

  Malcolm aimed his eyes at her breasts as she thrust and parried. It seemed he no longer concentrated on swordplay. Bethoc deemed her next move would serve him right. Closing in on Malcolm, she sprang suddenly, striking him in the chest.

  He met the attack. Wood clashed. He smacked her sword with a cutting blow, thus keeping his wooden point from being knocked back.

  “Bethoc, you have a good sword arm. You nearly won.”

  “Yes.” She could feel the cool sweat upon her skin. “I need water.” Bethoc ran her tongue over her parched lips.

  Malcolm dropped his sword to the ground and walked over to the water skin, which lay by Bethoc's shoes. Bringing it to her, he held the water skin to her lips. “Take a sip.”

  As Bethoc drank, a drop of water ran slowly down her throat to the hollow of her neck. The sensation caused her to shiver. Another drop rolled down her chin. Malcolm reached up and tenderly brushed the drop away with his fingertips. She let out a sigh then swallowed.

  Bethoc dropped her sword and pushed the water skin against Malcolm's hard chest. He tipped it up and a drop of water ran down his corded throat.
Bethoc's gaze followed it as it slid down his chiseled chest. She wanted to run her fingers along the same path as the droplet of water.

  Malcolm spread his feet into a comfortable stance and inhaled. “M'lady, let us stop for today. You have learned much. We will continue our lesson on the morrow.”

  Bethoc released a long slow breath. “What I would really like now is a bath.”

  “I have a tub at the rath.”

  “Will we sup there this eve?” Bethoc wandered over to where her shoes lay.

  “No. I have not brought any food or supplies there for we shall soon leave for Scone. I will have Riona bring us fare from the hall. It has been a long day.”

  Bethoc reached down to brush dirt off the soles of her feet. “In truth it has.” She stood straight and slid her feet into the shoes. So much had changed. Bethoc rubbed her palm. She still felt some of the vim, vigor, and heat that shot through her entire body when she touched the stone.

  As she walked beside Malcolm down the path leading to the rath, she tilted her head back and peered at the sky. Though the sun still shown, the moon was now visible as well.

  Her muscles stiffened, she couldn’t recall the last time she had such a workout. Malcolm wanted her to be his partner in guarding the stone, but she sensed he was also beginning to think of her as a real wife. Not one forced upon him, but one he wanted.

  Riona met Malcolm and Bethoc at the door with a sweet smile on her face.

  “Riona, we need fill the tub with water from the well.” As Bethoc strode in, she noticed Riona kept the shutters and door open to air out the rath, for the cottage was filled with the mellow scent of summer fauna.

  “Yes m'lady.” The steward’s daughter grabbed a bucket and headed outside, passing Malcolm as he entered the rath.

  “Here, I will help you,” Bethoc called. She slipped her shoes off again and grabbed a milking pail.

  Chapter Eight

  Standing in the doorway, Malcolm gazed at Bethoc's dark, glossy hair sweeping her back in an enticing sway. He had to have this wild, mesmeric Pict. No pawn in an arranged marriage, she was a lass who heated his blood. A woman he could never let go of.

  Malcolm stomped his foot on the floor. No. He could and would set her free. Curse her if she thought she could hold him to the land. He belonged to the sea. And Bethoc could not come where Malcolm belonged. Curses on her. How could he think she was his woman? He was not destined for everlasting love. Another life awaited him. Full, wild, and free like the sea itself.

  To take his mind off the sultry curves of her body and the alluring sway of her hips, Malcolm gathered choice pieces of wood for a fire. Adding fagots, he sparked a blaze, and with a puff of breath he brought the flicker to a vigorous flame. He laid two large, flat stones aside the fire and stared into the dancing crimson and amber flames.

  Riona and Bethoc strode in, each carrying a pail of sloshing water. Side by side they emptied the buckets into the round, wooden tub. Malcolm grabbed a pair of tongs to pick up and drop the heated rock into the tub. The smooth stones hit the bottom with a loud plunk, followed by a sizzle of white steam rising in the air.

  The girls went back to the well, leaving Malcolm with thoughts of Bethoc, nude and lying on his bed. Long straight legs, lithe thighs, and ample hips tapering into a slender waist. The ache in his groin rose to a throbbing pain. He pictured Bethoc smoldering beneath him as he stroked her flat stomach, firm breast, creamy shoulders, and lush lips to a fervid passion. Curse the woman.

  As Bethoc walked back into his rath, her bucket full of water, Malcolm's gaze locked onto her wild, green eyes. She glanced away, empting her bucket into the wooden tub. Just as sudden, she followed Riona back to the well. Malcolm stared after her. It seemed like forever before she came back with the third pail of water. Riona quietly excused herself to fetch food from the hall.

  Malcolm's gaze fastened on Bethoc's enticing face as he strode up to her. He knew his eyes betrayed his hunger for her. “While Riona fetches our evening fare, I will help you disrobe.”

  She stepped back, but Malcolm abruptly moved behind her. Slowly, he splayed his fingers across her neck and brushed back her dark hair, soft as a seal's pelt. Malcolm ran his tongue across his lips as he gazed at the dip of her neck. Lowering his head, he pressed his mouth against the milky flesh of her tender, salty skin. He wrapped his hands around her slender shoulders. In a serpentine motion, he skimmed his fingers across her taut flesh. Then he pressed down with the balls of his fingers applying firm, urgent pressure. She let out a throaty gasp.

  “Bethoc, your muscles are tight again.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in an effort to restrain his need.

  She tilted her head back, and rolled it from side to side. Her long, silky mane swung to and fro. It smelled like strawberries. He ran his hands down her smooth, soft back to her plush buttocks. “Bethoc, so beautiful.”

  A wild frisson of want surged in his veins. He pinched the cloth of her dress and in a fluid motion pulled the garment off her body, leaving her nude. Malcolm turned Bethoc around to face him.

  His eyes fell on her shapely legs and he let out a long sigh, so taken with the blue tattoos adorning the soft curving flesh of her thigh. At the flare of her hip a running horse with an intricate mane of swirls looked as if he tried to gallop to her belly. So her great great grandfather came from the house of the horse. “Flawless as a goddess.” Malcolm rasped, his throat muted with lust.

  “Dare we?” Bethoc asked in a breathy tone.

  “How can we not?” Malcolm pressed his mouth against hers, his tongue tracing the fullness of her lips. She let out a delicious little moan. He released her mouth.

  Her brows arched and her emerald eyes glistened.

  “You need take your bath, Bethoc, before the water cools.”

  Her tongue darted out ever so slightly as she licked her lips. With deliberate, slow movements, she raised her long, flowing and gracefully curved legs and stepped into the hot, steamy tub. He swept his eyes down her the tattoos on her thigh, a dolphin with its long face and flippers depicted with curving lines, the house of her great great grandmother. Beneath that were two round circles connected with one thin line, like wagon wheels, the Pict symbol of marriage. With a gentle, easy sway, she sunk into the bath until her back rested against the wooden rim, and her knees peeked out of the water.

  Bethoc modestly arranged her long, dark hair over her breasts, but he swept her mane over her shoulder. He knelt beside the tub and scooped up the water with both hands, letting it run down her glistening breasts. He longed to taste those slick pink tipped nipples to roll them with his tongue. The swelling bulge in his groin tightened. She moaned and wiggled. He pushed her long hair forward and poured a handful of water onto her arched back. As she rolled her neck from one side to the other, her silky mane swept against her wet back.

  Malcolm leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Bethoc as she did the same. Their lips pressed together in a flicker of heat. With urgent tugs, their upper bodies swiveled to and fro. He moved one arm away from her shoulder and slid it under her bottom. With both arms around her, he gently lifted her out of the tub. Lost in the sultry, slippery, silken sensations of her skin against his, he carried her wet and dripping to his bed.

  Malcolm cringed at a brisk rap at the door. “Give me but a moment,” he whispered to Bethoc as he kissed her, then pulled away. Straightening himself, he strode hastily to the door. “Who goes there?” He jerked it open, not waiting for an answer.

  He flinched with guilt when he saw it was Riona with a tray of food. “Forgive me,” he mumbled.

  “It is naught.” Riona handed him the tray. With a swift turn she walked away.

  Malcolm shut the door and carried the food to the bed where Bethoc lay wrapped in a bear fur. He put the tray down and sat by her side. He brimmed their goblets with ale and they nibbled on the rich cheese and white chunks of succulent boar. With the sharp taste of goat cheese on his tongue, Malcolm grabbed his cup and tossed t
he bittersweet golden brew down his throat. It heated his insides like a warm fire on a lonely winter's night. Bethoc set her goblet on the chest beside the bed. Malcolm did the same.

  Lying down beside her, Malcolm wrapped his arms around Bethoc. Though she kept her hand modestly pressed below her neck to hold the fur over her bare body, Malcolm’s skin prickled from the fiery heat of her flesh. Even through the fur. As one sniffs the first blossom of spring, Malcolm slowly drew in the sweet yet salty scent of Bethoc's skin.

  Words flowed in the haze of desire as he sang to her in a deep voice, thick with lust.

  "Bethoc fair, warrior maid.

  "Come lay with me. Share my bread.

  "Drink my sweet ale.

  "Bethoc fair, warrior maid,

  "Come lay with me. My elixir of love.

  "I shall drink from your honey lips.

  "Bethoc fair, warrior maid, lay with me."

  Bethoc rolled over onto her side. “Malcolm, Oh Malcolm, I—”

  With one arm wrapped around her, he stripped her of the lush bear pelt, freeing him to gaze upon her beautiful nude body. Yet, he saw tears filled her lovely green eyes.

  Suddenly, she leapt out of the bed. “I want you Malcolm as I have never wanted any man afore you. Yet I cannot bed you. Not as yet.” Bethoc grabbed the bear hide, covered herself, and sat on the bed with her head cast downward.

  “Sweetling, I did not mean to frighten you.” He reached to caress her, but she swatted his arm away and moved to the head of the bed.

  “Malcolm, I cannot do this. It is too soon. I tell you, it is not right.”

  Malcolm was swollen, throbbing, aching with want for her, but he would never force her or any woman. There was naught he could do. She was not ready. A creature of the sea would never have put him through this. What good was a woman to him anyway?

  Malcolm stomped to the hearth and lay down on his bratt, cursing that thieving Kenneth for keeping him tied to the land. He cursed that damn woman for making him want her.

  * * * *

  Bethoc woke at the sound of a rooster's crow. Snuggling up against the wall of the rath, she glanced at the banked hearth. Her gaze locked on Malcolm's long muscled body, stretched out on the floor, naked under the wool bratt. The vivid memory of last night made her tingle and burn with want. She felt so warm and loved when Malcolm had sung to her, but she couldn't succumb to his dark charm. He was a Scot.