Protecting the stone was one thing; she wouldn't turn her back on the sacred jewel of destiny. But this man was quite another. She had come to have feelings for him. This meant, once she carried the La Fail to Scone, Bethoc had to leave. Disappear into the bogs and woods where Malcolm would never find her. Being forced to wed a Scot was one thing, but loving a Scot willingly was quite another. She had to hide her feelings or she would bring shame onto the name of her dead father. She had to honor her father’s memory and stay true to the Picts. Bethoc and Malcolm were not meant to be. No matter how fast her heart beat or how hot her skin burned whenever she was near him.
When a cool breeze brushed her skin, she grabbed the covers tighter. Feeling the scratchiness of the wool, Bethoc realized she was nude. Grabbing her under-dress off the floor, she slipped it on, smoothed out the wrinkles with her hands, then pulled a tunic dress over it. Bethoc picked up a silver brush and swept it down her long, dark mane. She searched under and around the bed for her shoes, but only found one. Deeming it too much trouble to hunt for the other, she went barefoot.
Upon glancing at the window, she saw Riona walking toward the rath. With buoyant, silent steps, Bethoc went to meet the maiden. Pressing her index finger against her lips, Bethoc whispered, “Malcolm is sleeping.”
“Yes, m'lady. I came to see if you have clothes in need of washing.”
“Yes, wait here.” Bethoc tiptoed quietly as she gathered clothes together. “I will come with you.”
Once outside, she pressed the heavy basket of clothes against her chest. “Have you a spare washing stone?”
“No, m'lady, but we shall find one at the creek.”
Bethoc walked at Riona's side, through the morning mist, down the path to the teal stream. Finding the smokeless air soothing, Bethoc breathed in deeply and shook her neck to pull out the morning kinks.
Though the path was not long, it was narrow and winding. A few ancient relics, thrown in the bottom of the creek before the Scots became Christians, were strewn across the mossy bank. Broken pieces of ancient jewelry and vases had lain there for years, adding to the serenity and sacredness of the meandering water.
Riona gestured with her hand to stop at a bend in the stream. Smooth white stones of various sizes dotted the grassy bank.
While searching for a suitable washing stone, Bethoc cocked her head to the side and asked, “Riona, do you know why I came to Dalriada?”
“Your father and your betrothed were among the seven earls. You vowed to avenge their deaths by killing our king.”
“I am surprised you knew of this. You have been ever so kind to me.”
“Ah, we ken you were mad with grief.”
Bethoc felt insulted. “What say you, mad with grief?”
“Yes, Malcolm told us, he did.” Riona smiled sweetly.
Bethoc felt her jaw clench. “So rather than call me an assassin, he said I was a bereaved madwoman.”
* * * *
Malcolm stretched out his legs as he woke. His groin swollen and stiff with need, he awkwardly eased into to a sitting position and glanced toward the bed. “Bethoc?” Where was she? Slowly, he scanned the room from the kitchen to the hearth. “Bethoc,” he called in a firm voice. “Bethoc,” he yelled. The woman would be the death of him.
Happens she fled to Scone to gather a rebel band to fight? No, even she was not that addle-pated. The reign of the Picts had come to an end. There was no a leader braver or more powerful than Kenneth. Malcolm leapt out of bed and yelled again. Bethoc didn't answer. She did appear to have run away Grabbing his tunic and braies off the floor, he dressed and sprinted to the palace stables. Was she on foot or had she stolen a horse or taken hers? He would soon find out.
A quick search of the stalls showed no horses were missing and the groom hadn't seen her. Malcolm recalled Bethoc's friendship with Riona, and rushed to the feasting hall. Mayhaps the steward's lass had seen her this morn.
Malcolm barged into the hall and greeted the steward. “Good morning to you, Fergus. I seek Riona?”
“She went to your raff to help with the washing.”
“Washing? So the lassies are at the creek?”
“I would think so.”
Malcolm felt foolish. “Good day to you, Fergus.” He did not have problems like this in the sea. This woman was as much a curse to him as his cousin was, one stole his pelt, the other robbed him of his good sense.
Malcolm headed at a brisk pace down the path to the winding creek. He came to a sudden halt upon spotting Bethoc. She held a bundle of clothes pressed against her chest, a cake of soap in her hand. They glared at each other for a long moment.
“Malcolm, what mean you, telling everyone that I was mad with grief?”
“What mean you?” Standing but a foot span apart from her, he exclaimed, “Bethoc, I woke and you were gone. I knew not what happened to you. After last night I thought you had run off. That I frightened you.”
“What say you?”
“I almost bedded you, woman.”
“No!” Bethoc felt warmth rise to her face but she fought to hide her feelings, her memory of how much she had wanted him last night. How much she wanted him now.
Riona stood. “Mayhaps I should leave you two alone.”
Malcolm bobbed his head in agreement.
“No.” Bethoc waved her head side to side.
“Yes, for I need take my morning bath.” Malcolm pulled the tunic over his head and shook out his shoulder length hair.
“Good day.” Riona turned and scampered back toward the village.
“Riona, come back,” Bethoc called out to her retreating friend.
God's teeth, Bethoc looks so comely. The hard bulge, stiff and swollen with need for her, proved his ardor had not cooled. But now was not the time. A dunk in the cold creek might help. Malcolm grabbed a cake of soap, unclasped the belt at his waist, flung it to the ground, and stripped off his braies.
Bethoc pulled the dripping clothes out of the creek, and one by one laid them on large boulders at her side. Malcolm sat down in all his bareness on a large rock at creek side and tugged off his boots.
Bethoc shut her eyes. “Put your clothes on.”
Malcolm let out a deep chuckle and waded into shallow water. A chill shot up his spine. At the center of the stream the water came up to his waist. He bent down so he was covered to his shoulders.
When Bethoc opened her eyes, her gaze fell on Malcolm's face, just above the sparkling water.
“What are you grinning at?”
Bethoc blushed. “I was but thinking of Scone. When do we leave?”
“Soon.” Malcolm dipped his head down in the cold water and quickly brought it up.
“Do you think we will have any trouble?” Bethoc darted her gaze back and forth, trying not to glance at him.
“No, no one would dare steal the Stone of Destiny.” Malcolm shook the excess water from his hair.
“Yes, for it is the stone Jacob laid his head on,” Bethoc absently mumbled as she watched Malcolm soap his hair.
The thick lather was like a soothing balm to his scalp. He dunked down into the creek and rinsed off the soap bubbles. Refreshed, he threw his head back and combed his fingers through his raven mane, flicking the water from his hair. The soft, shifting creek sand felt so good beneath his feet, between his toes. How he missed his life in the sea.
Malcolm felt the heat of Bethoc's gaze and stood, exposing only his upper body, for his legs and private parts were covered by the stream. She stared at his shoulders and chest as if she were unable to turn away.
Bethoc blinked and exhaled. “I have my washing to tend to.”
Malcolm chuckled in a deep reverberating tone. Bethoc hastily glanced down at the wet clothes she had grabbed.
“Do you need help with your washing?” Malcolm winked.
“No! Stay in the water.”
Malcolm waded to the shore with the strong, forceful strides of a lion hunting prey. Bethoc's lids slipped down over her eyes as h
er face deepened to a vivid pink. She stood and stepped back. “Malcolm.”
“Anything wrong with the way I look?” Malcolm's blue eyes flickered with simmering heat.
“Put your clothes on, you rat's bane ruffian.”
Malcolm laughed. “As you wish.” He strode naked to the bush where his garments and boots lay.
“And they say we Picts are heathen,” Bethoc gibed. Her face flushed the shade of a blooming rose.
Malcolm longed to kiss her cheeks and deepen the blush.
She turned her head. Malcolm tugged on his breeches and tunic. When she glanced his way again he was fastening his belt.
“Help me with me boots.” Malcolm flashed a sheepish grin.
“Go in your bare feet. I care not.”
“Ah, m'lady,” Malcolm said in a feigned tone of hurt as he sat down on a boulder and pulled on a boot.
Bethoc's dark pupils rolled to the side of her eyes. Malcolm pushed his foot in the other boot and stood. “And here I was willing to help you.”
“I do not need your help, you big lout.” Bethoc glanced down at the pile of clothes that still needed to be washed.
“You go about your washing then and have a good day of it. I need speak to Kenneth afore we leave for Scone on the morrow.”
“The morrow?”
“Yes.” Malcolm paused and took in the unmatched, willowy comeliness of her body as she dunked another piece of clothing into the cool water. He took a deep breath. His ardor had not cooled at all. But there was nothing that could be done for it until tonight.
* * * *
As Malcolm turned into the chamber off the round hall, the first person he saw was Kenneth's brother.
Donald grinned broadly. “Ready for Scone are you, Malcolm?”
“That I am.”
Kenneth sat in a wide high back chair with his hands clasped in his lap as he stared off in space. “Hail Malcolm.” The king's mouth slowly curled into a half smile. “The time hath come. Soon both Picts and Scots will bow to me as high king of Alba.”
“You are the true sovereign of all Alba,” Malcolm agreed.
“No longer do the Scots live under Pict tyranny. Picts and Scots shall be ruled with the same justice. The fair and just law of King Kenneth mac Alpin.” Donald clutched his tankard and toasted his brother.
Kenneth grinned, grabbed his goblet off the table, and lifted it high. “To Alba.”
Malcolm picked up a full goblet, “Long live the King of Alba.”
All three downed the golden ale with a flourish.
“We shall enter Scone two days hence.” Malcolm refilled his cup till it brimmed of heady ale.
Donald smiled at his brother. “Father Degnan will crown you upon the Stone of Destiny the next day.”
“In truth.” Kenneth grinned and glanced at Malcolm. “Father Degnan will ride with you and your Pict princess. He will drive the wagon which will hold the stone and the marble chair it rests on.”
“It is good.” Malcolm nodded.
“Yes.” Donald leaned back in his chair. “In days long past, the prophet Jeremiah and two princesses, daughters of the line of Jacob, escaped Judah with a sacred stone.”
Malcolm watched the movement of Donald's hands and fingers as they curled and fluttered in rapid gestures with the telling of the story.
“They traveled the seven seas until they came to Erin. There the Jerusalem princess, Tea Tephi, wed the high king of Tara.” Donald picked up the clay pitcher and poured his tankard full of ale. He took a long draw, clearly enjoying it, and Malcolm took the story from there.
“The Stone of Destiny was honored at Tara as it had been at Jerusalem. It came to be called the Lia Fail.” Malcolm took a deep breath. “The stone sung for the rightful king. So all the kings of Tara were crowned upon the holy relic.” Malcolm leaned back in his chair. “Many years after, Fergus the Great left Erin and bore the stone to Dalriada. It is here that St. Columba himself crowned King Aidan on the Stone. So it came to be that all Scot kings were crowned on the Stone of Destiny. King Alpin as well.”
Kenneth added, “The rose of the free Scots shall flourish where the Stone of Destiny is found.”
* * * *
Bethoc pulled the dripping tunic out of the creek and laid it on a large boulder at her side. She closed her eyes a moment as the sun's soft morning rays warmed her skin. With her eyes shut tight, she recalled the image of Malcolm standing in the middle of the creek, bare with a smug grin across his face as sunlight sparkled on the water.
He knows I want him. A long, audible sigh escaped her lips. He thought she had left him. That is what he said. It shocked her, because she had never thought of leaving. She no longer believed the story of mac Alpin's treason. Drostan started a brawl and took it too far. So the earls died, each and everyone. Leaving her alone.
Suddenly, Bethoc felt the heat of someone's stare and glanced toward the bush across the stream, but no one was there.
* * * *
Thorseth, the shortest and youngest of the Viking band of twelve strong; looking for adventure and a chance to gain treasures, hid behind a mulberry shrub. He watched a dark haired lady wash her garments. Thorseth deemed the large man, with the bearing of a warrior, was most likely her lord husband. The young Viking understood enough of the Gaelic tongue to know they spoke of a stone which belonged to the Scot king. They had called it Destiny. Thorseth deemed it could be naught but a rare, precious jewel.
Leaving the woman to her wash, the young Viking backed out of the bush in stealth, but at that precise moment, the lady looked up and cast her gaze directly at Thorseth.
Bethoc felt the presence of danger, but didn't hear or see anything. Malcolm had left and she was too far from the village to get help if something or someone attacked. The clothes were clean and only needed to be dried in the air and sun. Hastily, she bundled the wet garments against her chest and slowly stepped backward from the creek. For if a beast watched her, she did not want to urge it into a charge. When she was twelve paces from the creek bank, she turned and ran to down the winding path.
As Bethoc entered the village, she yelled out to Riona, the first person she spotted.
Riona rushed to her. Bethoc handed her the wet clothes. “Hang these somewhere.”
“M'lady, what is amiss?” Riona wrapped her arms tightly around the wad of dripping garments.
“It may be naught, but I need you to make haste to the rath. Fetch my bow and arrows and meet Malcolm and me at the creek.”
“Yes m'lady,” Riona turned to a serving wench and handed her the wet clothes. “Here, hang these somewhere.” She sprinted off toward the rath.
Bethoc ran to the palace, yelling for Malcolm.
He charged from the hall and to Bethoc's side. “What is amiss?”
“Malcolm, come to the creek. A loathsome man or beast hides in the bushes. Trust my Pict blood, I felt it glare at me.”
“Direct me to this place, but stay behind me. You do not carry a weapon.”
“Riona has gone to fetch my bow.”
Malcolm grabbed her hand and took off toward the creek, pulling her behind him. A beast or man by the creek, he silently fumed. Had Bethoc been in danger while washing clothes? “Bethoc,” Malcolm bellowed unaware he raised his voice. “Keep sword or bow with you at all times.”
“You took my bow from me.”
“When you tried to kill Kenneth, but I gave it back.”
“Riona is fetching it,” Bethoc snapped.
“Heed my warning Bethoc, carry a weapon. These are strange times.”
“Yes,” Bethoc readily agreed as they passed the outer yard of the palace and took the worn path to the creek.
As they neared the stream, Bethoc pointed. “There.”
Malcolm's powerful legs struck a trotting rhythm, he ran to the narrow end of the creek, and with the masculine grace of a stag, he leapt to the other side. With long, heavy steps, he came to the mulberry bush and drew his sword. He swept his blade through the shrubber
y, slicing off leaves and twigs. Nothing. Malcolm searched the surrounding area, seeking signs of an intruder. Riona arrived and brought Bethoc the weapon.
“Malcolm.” Bethoc crossed the creek and ran toward him with bow in hand.
He raised his hand, palm up. “Halt.” He stared at the ground where he stood. “A foot print.”
“Hoof or—” Bethoc's question was interrupted by Malcolm's answer.
“The foot is too large for a woman. It's from a man wearing a boot. But who?”
Chapter Nine
Standing in the castle yard bathed by moonlight, Bethoc breathed in the soft scents or primrose and silverweed, growing wild. Gazing up at the silvery orb which kept the dark away, she wished it could chase away danger as well. The image of a footprint in the sand flashed in her mind, turning her stomach and revving her heart to beat so fast it nearly leapt from her chest.
The rhythmic tapping of horse's hooves cut through Bethoc's distress. She looked up as Malcolm's mount let out a loud snort and trotted into the castle yard. Hiking up her skirt, she ran to her husband.
He would hold her. And the death of her father, the threat of the footprint, even the dark of night, would all fade away when Malcolm wrapped his arms around her.
Malcolm swung his leg around, dismounting the sleek, sweaty steed. He smelt of sweat and horse, scents of life on land.
Malcolm lowered his tone to a soothing pitch. “We espied hoof marks of a horse. From a patch of nibbled grass it looks like the steed was tethered near the creek, but we did not find it or its rider.”
“Mayhaps they hide in the woods or a bog,” Bethoc offered in a somewhat doubtful tone.
“We leave for Scone on the morrow. You will be safe there.” Malcolm clasped her shoulders.
“Yes.” Rather than comfort, his touch transmitted fire into her. She melted beneath the firmness of strong hands resting on her shoulders. Bethoc’s body craved the feel of his arms wrapped around her, crushing her against his broad chest. She wanted him last night yet the needs of her body gave way to her mind but not now. All her thoughts were of Malcolm and her need to slide her fingers across the muscular slab of his back and strip his clothes off to reveal his lithe, powerful physique, and the rock hard bulge of flesh between his thighs. To touch the throbbing proof of his arousal and roll her finders over its girth, slide them up and down its slick length. At long last to feel the fullness of male heat inside her moist, flaming core and the power of his engorged masculinity pumping her. Now. She had to have him.
The Scottish Selkie Page 7
