The Scottish Selkie

by Cornelia Amiri (Celtic Romance Queen)

  “No. It is almost too late once a sword has been drawn.”

  “Warriors all of you, all the time. You do not know what it is to have peace,” Bethoc retorted in a sinking tone.

  “I thought you had no wont for peace. You wanted Kenneth dead with no regard to what would follow. The Vikings, who bite at our heels, would overrun Dalriada and Caledonia if Kenneth died. He is our only hope for peace. The one ruler who can keep our swords cold in their sheaths.” Malcolm had to make her understand.

  “I gave no thought to the Vikings. I meant to take vengeance for the deaths of my sire and my betrothed. It seemed a deed of honor. Now it seems foolish. I do not know why I did it, forsooth.” Bethoc's tone was full of defeat and regret.

  “You were mad with grief. It will take a long time for it to lessen. It is a hard thing to lose a father.”

  Bethoc fell silent as if Malcolm's words touched her. “Yes it is. With Drostan dead and no family left, I was all alone. I knew if I succeeded with my quest you Scots would kill me, but I cared not. I had no wont to live. It was like a nightmare. Even I can hardly fathom that I nearly slew Kenneth mac Alpin. That I meant to slay him while he slept. It frightens me.” Bethoc shivered beneath the bratt as she sat on the pallet near the hot fire.

  “Yes. War and what it does to people is fearsome. What it takes from people, how it changes them.” Malcolm took a deep breath to recover from the heaviness which surfaced at his words. “I know of a place where there is no war. I long to return there.”

  “What place is this?”

  “Let us say, it is in my dreams.”

  “You mean you do not wish to fight?”

  “I am no coward. I fight when I must. But no I do not wish to fight. It was never my choice. This life is no longer for me, I have another waiting.”

  “I never heard a warrior speak thus. My da and Drostan truly loved the sword, I think.”

  “Mayhaps there was more to them. Things they could not tell you. We all have our dark secrets, Bethoc.”

  “What secrets have you?”

  “None that matter to you. My desire for peace is no secret. I tell everyone, I will hang up my sword one day. Keep it cold in its sheath and never fight among hu.... “Malcolm had almost said never live among humans, but he had caught himself. He couldn't expose his secret to her. Not Bethoc. “At last, you are not my enemy. You are my mate. I mean my wife. At least for now.”

  “Do you think you will be able to hang up your sword and have a peaceful life?”

  “Yes. Now that Kenneth is king of Alba, the new kingdom of Scots and Picts, it will not be long.”

  “Mayhaps in a year and a day?”

  “In truth, I think so. You shall be able to marry a man of your choice. And live the life you long for.”

  “I have not thought of it. So much has happened. I cannot think about the future now. I miss my da so much. Some days are very hard to get through.”

  “It will be so for some time. But, it will get easier and you will make a new life for yourself.”

  “Malcolm, you are a good man. Honorable and kind, in truth. I am sure you will find a gentle woman to love you.”

  “Gentle? No, I prefer wild,” Malcolm said on a sigh, longing for the free life of the sea.

  Chapter Six

  “Bethoc. Wake up!”

  An early morning chill hung in the air as Malcolm's voice called her from sleep.

  “Arise!”

  “I need more sleep,” Bethoc grumbled. After a few extra moments of snuggling beneath the warm woolen cover, she gave up, opened her eyes, and faced the morning.

  Easing into a sitting position on the blanket by the banked fire, she grabbed the tunic-dress on the floor beside her and slipped it over her head.

  Malcolm dressed while Bethoc raked a comb, he’d handed her, through her chestnut hair.

  As she strode to the door of the rath, Malcolm pointed to her bare feet and shook his head. “I was awakened by a servant rapping on the door before the cocks crowed. He brought back your shoes and I sat them by the hearth.”

  Bethoc glanced toward the fireplace with no real interest.

  “Put them on,” Malcolm chided with a smile. “You are a princess, a lady. Women of your standing wear shoes.”

  Sluggishly, she grabbed the shoes by the hearth and slipped the confining leather onto her feet, then turned and headed out the door. Malcolm followed her down the well trodden path. The trill of a lark and the song of a thrush added a spice of sound to the zesty air. Bethoc brushed her hand against the dew-covered leaves of a mulberry bush as she walked to the palace. Huge oaken doors were pulled back, welcoming the Scots into the warm, hospitable, round hall to break their fast.

  Malcolm stayed closely behind Bethoc, as if the sway of her hips entranced him. Their feet crackled against the trampled rushes spread over the dirt floor. Bethoc and Malcolm took a seat at a long, wooden bench.

  She curled her fingers around a clay cup and gulped down sweet, soothing ale.

  Malcolm took a swig of the golden brew before dunking his bread in it. “Bethoc, this bow of yours, do you know how to use it?”

  “Yes.” I almost killed Kenneth, did I not?

  “Will you show me?” His dark eyes sparked with challenge.

  “Are you asking me to shoot you?” Bethoc's nose twitched from the mingling scents of ale, smoke, and fresh baked bread.

  “I need to see your skill first hand. We have a target in the practice yard, so you will not have to kill anyone.”

  “How disappointing.”

  Malcolm shook his head and chuckled. “Shall we?” He glanced at her feet then flashed a scowl.

  Bethoc hadn't realized she had slid off her shoes again. With a toss of her head, she slipped her leather shoes back on and followed Malcolm. My skill with the bow? My aim could fall short and I might mistakenly shoot my lord husband. Bethoc let out a low chortle as they walked outside. How can I tell the difference between a target and a Scot? Bethoc laughed louder as they cut across a barren field to get to the practice yard.

  Oengus already stood on the practice field, waving his long sword in the air in an awkward attempt to hone his skills, which were obviously lacking.

  Malcolm looked him directly in the eyes. “Hasten to the castle and fetch Bethoc's bow.”

  As Oengus ran off to do Malcolm's bidding, Bethoc peered at the bull hide target and intently at the scarlet dot in the center. “I can hit yon mark.”

  “With how many tries?” Malcolm asked dismissively.

  “I can hit it on the first try.” Bethoc grinned and placed one hand on her hip.

  “But can you hit it twice?” Malcolm inhaled. “Mayhaps thrice?”

  “Yes.” I am not dim-witted. I know what you are up to. “You want to see if I have real skill? If I could have killed Kenneth?”

  Malcolm folded his arms across his chest and exhaled. “No. If you had shot Kenneth you would have killed him. He was in your sight and did not foresee the shot. I do want to see what real skill you have, if any.”

  “I could pretend I have no skill and fool you.”

  “Yes, but you will not.” With his eyes alert and gleaming, Malcolm held a cunning expression on his face.

  “Why not?” Bethoc heard the baffled tone in her voice and she knew it shown on her face. Many things he said puzzled her.

  “You have too much pride to belittle yourself, even with good cause.”

  The Scot was smarter than she thought. Bethoc couldn't pretend to be less than she was.

  “Yes. I will show you my true skill.”

  “Good.” Malcolm turned toward Oengus, who had returned with Bethoc's bow and arrows. Taking the weapon from him, Malcolm handed it to Bethoc.

  Gripping the bow in her hand Bethoc thought, but a day ago, I tried to kill Kenneth with the same weapon. Life changed too quickly. Bethoc slipped off her confining shoes and kicked them aside. Taking a deep breath, she set her bow, aimed, and pulled. With a quick snap the arrow f
lew straight into the center of the scarlet dot.

  “I told you.” Bethoc grasped the bow to her chest. “I am good.”

  Malcolm’s dark eyebrows arched. “How good?”

  She recognized the challenge. “You wish to see the whyfor of my bow skills, do you not?”

  Watching him nod gave her an excuse to admire the features of his face, bronzed by win and sun, his lips were firm and sensual, and his dark eyes smoldered with fire. In that moment she knew he realized she perused him.

  Bethoc felt the heat on her cheeks from embarrassment. She gulped then tore her gaze away and stared at the target. “Fair enough, Scot, I will show you what a Pict woman can do.”

  “I cannot wait to see what a Pict woman can do.” His husky tone sounded as warm and thick as honey and her body buzzed inside.

  With a slow, deep breath, she cleared her head of all thoughts of Malcolm, then set her bow and aimed. The second arrow flew fast and smooth, piercing the practice target right above the scarlet center.

  “Not bad, but you drifted out of your shooting axis.” Malcolm stepped up behind her and ran his fingers over both her shoulders. With a slow firm motion, he kneaded her shoulders, then her neck. “Bethoc, you must relax your upper body.”

  The balls of his calloused fingers rolled across her muscles as if smoothing out a piece of crumpled parchment. The glowing, fiery sensation in her shoulders floated to her brain and flowed to her belly. All hot and shivery she had to fight back a moan of pleasure. She couldn’t let him know the effect his strong fingers had on her.

  He eased his hands of her shoulders. “You need not be forceful when you aim. Let your gaze float around the target.” Malcolm fluttered his finger in front of her face to demonstrate.

  Those warm, firm fingers needed to brush against her body again, the way they did the air now. To sensually slide down her flesh, stroking, rubbing, squeezing, sending her senses reeling.

  She stepped back, having to get her mind back on who and what he was. A Scott. Her enemy. Lifting her chin, she looked him in the eyes, one warrior to another. “Do you think you can do better?”

  “Yes.” Malcolm met the challenge head on. He took her bow and arrow, and with all the aplomb of a king's champion, he aimed and shot.

  The arrow sliced the air and thrust through the center of the target. He strung the bow with a second arrow and fired. With a snap, he hit the bulls-eye again. Then once more, thrice in a row.

  Bethoc pivoted toward him on her bare feet. The expression in his eyes was not quite an I-told-you-so glare, but more of a hardened I-can-do-it-anytime, anywhere-if-I-want.

  Bethoc swallowed hard. Malcolm may be more her match than she thought. In truth, he was well skilled for a Scot and more than pleasing to the eye. Every time he glanced at her, his dark eyes drew her to him.

  He moved closer until his chest rested against her back. Her flesh tingled as the warmth and strength of his muscular body touched hers. As he embraced her, Bethoc’s pulse quickened. Even under the woolen cloth of her tunic dress, his arms kindled the feeling of red hot fire engulfing her shoulders.

  “Less force,” Malcolm said in a throaty tone. “Your aim should be fluid.”

  Bethoc's ear tingled from his hot breath. Malcolm gently lifted her arm and bent it over her shoulder. Firmly, yet with tenderness, he stretched her arm down her spine.

  Muscles crackled. Bethoc felt so good. Lifting her other arm, Malcolm bent it behind her back. She laced her fingers together and pulled, causing a pleasurable give in her neck. A warm, peaceful feeling flowed through her body as the kinks and knots in her shoulders and upper back unwound.

  Malcolm let go of her arms and stepped back. “Once more.”

  Drawing back with a fluid motion, Bethoc launched the bow. It sailed through the air and flawlessly impaled the scarlet mark.

  “Good. Yet you need be perfect to shoot men, Princess. They shoot back.” As Malcolm spoke, his breath seared the shallow of her neck. “One mistake can get you killed.”

  Bethoc flinched from both his nearness and his bluntness. She knew warriors placed themselves in danger every day, but she’d never thought of the perils in such forthright terms. This Scot knew much. Mayhaps he could teach her some things.

  Setting an arrow, Bethoc eased back the bow and hit the mark again. Five more times, she shot a bull's eye on each try. “I have never heard tell of any bowman that fired so well,” Bethoc boasted.

  “When a marksman fires that well, there are very few people left alive to tell the tale.”

  “Oh,” Bethoc gulped. “I have never killed anyone. I am not a true warrior.”

  “I don't plan to send you into battle, but my life may depend on your skills,” Malcolm said in serious tone.

  “My skills? Why would your life depend on me?”

  “You will safeguard my back. You are my wife, are you not?”

  “I am not fighting for you or Kenneth.” Malcolm could never force her to be treacherous to her people, no matter how confused she felt. He was her enemy. Bethoc came to kill his king. Now she felt Kenneth was the only man who could be king of Caledonia. Only because he had slain everyone else. The earls, her father and betrothed included, had given him cause. Still, she could never aid Kenneth in his quest to hold the Pictish throne.

  “I do not care what you say. I shall not fight for Kenneth mac Alpin. The man is a treacherous craven.”

  “I would never ask you to fight for Kenneth.” Malcolm's tone reflected that the notion was pure nonsense. “But you will fight for God, will you not?”

  “What mean you?”

  “Come, I want to show you something.”

  Chapter Seven

  Quivering with curiosity, Bethoc took off at a springy pace behind Malcolm until he stopped at a small, gray stucco building, which stood alongside the chapel. Two guards stationed at the entrance let him pass.

  As Bethoc followed him inside, a tingling feeling, from her head to her bare toes, told her a source of power dwelled within.

  Malcolm walked over to a throne in which a smooth yellow rock lay in the place usually reserved for a plump cushion. To Bethoc it felt as if rays of energy beamed out of the strange stone and filled the dimly lit room with magic.

  “It is the Lia Fail.” Malcolm's voice reverberated with a tone of awe.

  “The Stone of Destiny,” Bethoc whispered reverently. A hot shiver spread through her entire body. She had heard tell of its power, its history. “Be it true? Is it Jacob's pillow?”

  “Yes, in truth,” Malcolm inhaled deeply, “Long ago this stone came to lie in a far away land called Bethel.”

  Bethoc gazed intently into Malcolm's dark blue eyes as she listened.

  “A man named Jacob, disguised as his older brother, tricked his blind father into giving him the elder son's inheritance. In fleeing his older brother's wrath, Jacob wandered into the clearing where this stone lay. Jacob gathered a pile of stones including this one.” Malcolm pointed to the yellow rock. “Then he laid the stones down as a pillow for his head. As he slept, he dreamed of a stairway to heaven.” Malcolm lifted his hands upwards. “The God of all creation called down to Jacob, from the top of the ladder, decreeing his descendents would be as plentiful as dust spread to the four corners of the earth.” Malcolm spread out his arms.

  “When Jacob awoke, he deemed he had lain on the gateway to Heaven. Jacob poured oil on the smaller stones and set them upright as a pillar to mark the holy place. Then he took the large stone with him as a symbol of God's blessing.”

  Bethoc's mouth rounded with wonder and drew in a lengthy breath as Malcolm continued the tale.

  “Jacob wed. He came to have many sons and grandsons, but no matter where his family pitched their tent, the stone was always with them. The sacred relic was passed down from his sons to his grandsons to their sons. They called the rock, Jacob's Pillow.”

  “They carried it into Egypt where it stayed until Moses freed the Israelites. Moses took Jacob's pillow with him
into the Promised Land. The stone passed through many generations, within the line of Jacob. For many years, the stone stood in the temple in Jerusalem and served as the pedestal of the Ark, which held the Ten Commandments. Then during the reign of the Israelite King, Zedekiah, Babylonians attacked and burned Jerusalem.”

  Malcolm's brows arched and he flung his hands outward. “King Zedekiah had imprisoned the prophet Jeremiah for foretelling of this doom, but the Babylonian king freed Jeremiah. The prophet carried all the holy relics out of Jerusalem and hid the ark and tabernacle in a hollow cave then sealed the entrance with rocks so it won’t be found until God reunites the Israelites.”

  “Jeremiah meant to use Jacob's pillow to rebuild the empire of Israel. But Judah lay in waste, and it wasn't safe to go to Babylon or Egypt. So Jeremiah took King Zedekiah's two daughters and the Stone of Destiny to a new land.”

  Bethoc leaned nearer. “He took the stone?” Bethoc's skin tingled as she asked, “Where?”

  Malcolm's eyes twinkled. “Seeking a new homeland, they sailed across the far seas until they came upon an emerald isle. There, on a grassy, pea-green hill called Tara, Zedekiah's eldest daughter, Tea Tephi and Eochaidh of Erin were married and crowned King and Queen as they stood on the Stone of Destiny. Wise and spiritual, the people of Erin grasped the power of the stone.”

  Malcolm tilted his head back. “The stone stood at Tara for many generations. It came to be known as the Lia Fail, the speaking stone in the language of Erin. The stone chose the high kings by roaring for the rightful leader. Each coronation included blessing the king's future children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, in the manner of Jacob when he blessed his sons afore his death.” Malcolm paused and smiled.

  Bethoc was enthralled in the tale and couldn't wait for more. “How did it come to be here, in Dalriada?”

  “Well, when King Fergus left Erin for Caledonia, he brought the Stone of Destiny with him, to crown the Scot kings on it. It is said, except old seers do feign and wizard wits be blind, the Scots in place must reign where they this stone shall find.”