The Scottish Selkie (2 page)

“Yes.” Kenneth nodded his head. “It is what I do with my enemies. I hold feast and ply them with ale till they are drunk. While they sit at my board, I pull a bolt from under my bench and cast them into pits with bloody blades to impale them.”

“Mac Alpin's treason, they say.” Malcolm let out a ragged sigh. “Every woad painted woman who came to collect their dead, cursed me for it.” How people could believe such babble he did not know. Malcolm was weary of it all.

“Let it be.” Kenneth waved his hands airily. “The kingdom is mine. It is all that matters.”

“To the king of Alba, Dalriada and Caledonia united.” Malcolm toasted his sovereign and friend. After gulping half his ale with one swallow, he clanked the goblet on the table.

Kenneth threw his head back and downed his goblet of ale. “I could not have done it without you, Malcolm. I shall reward you greatly. Anything you want, name it and it is yours.”

“I desire that which is mine, give me back my pelt.”

“In good time. I need you till the country is settled. Albeit, I will grant any other boon you wish.”

“All I treasure is the life you stole from me.” Malcolm pushed the tankard of ale aside. “I ask for naught more.” 

“In good time.” 

Malcolm stood and walked to the end of the hall, threw a plaid bratt on a cushioned bench, and bedded down with the soldiers. He tried to forget Kenneth, his dear cousin, whom he wanted to strangle.

* * * *

Kenneth took a full jug of ale into the king's alcove, which had the luxury of a window to let fresh air in, though the opening was cut high and small for defense. He sat on the bed, put his pitcher of ale down, tugged off his boots, and unpinned his bratt from around his shoulders. In naught but his tunic, he lay down on the high, narrow bed, and spread the plaid cloak over him like a blanket. He shut his eyes. 

A sound woke Kenneth with a start. Grabbing his sword, he leapt off the bed. Brandishing the long blade, Kenneth glanced at the window. An assassin, perched on the other side of the wall, held a bow, strung with an arrow, aimed at him. 

The assassin leapt down.

Kenneth whipped his sword toward the window and yelled, “Malcolm, an assassin, a bowman, makes his escape. Capture him.”

Malcolm leapt off the bench, rushed outside, and charged across the ground. By the light of the nearly full moon, he spotted the fleeing villain and gained on him. The assassin almost cost Malcolm all he had sacrificed for. Hackles rose on the back of his neck and ignoring the pull and strain in his legs, he ran harder and faster.

The scents of dirt and grass, mingled with the moisture in the air, were so strong he could taste it. Malcolm's heart pounded. He heard the huffiness of his breath as he came upon the villain. 

Upon grabbing hold of the back of the black cowl, he yanked the man to him, and wrapped his arm around the fiend in an iron hold. “Make one move, cur and I'll break your neck.” 

The assassin stilled. Malcolm took a deep breath, allowing his heartbeat to slow as he scanned the land near the castle. Armed men might be hidden in the woods, behind Ash, Pine, Birch, Rowan, and Hawthorne trees, waiting to attack. He glanced toward the keep, Kenneth's war band galloped toward them. The mounted troops’ snorting and neighing horses circled the assassin.

Malcolm shoved him to the ground, whipped out his sword, and held the deadly point at the villain’s throat. “Give me your name.” 

His eyes turned round in shock and he gulped as if he could not find his voice.

Malcolm pushed the point of the blade against his neck until a drop of red blood trickled down. “You craven, tell me your name.”

“Bethoc,” the would-be assassin said in a horse voice. 

Malcolm stared at the man who cowered on the ground at his mercy. His tunic bulged at his chest, his shoulders were too scrawny, and he’d never seen a man's waist taper so.

Malcolm gasped, yanked the sword away, and stepped back. “A lass.” 

“Yes.” She took a deep breath and sat up. “A woman sworn to vengeance.”

As she sat up, her fingers slid over her head, slipping off the black hood of her cowl revealing brownish-red braids pinned on top of her head. Though her black braies and tunic veiled her in the night, she’d attempted her crime under a near full moon. Amateur. No hired killer was she. 

“I came for Scot blood in vengeance of my sire. He died by mac Alpin's treason.” Her green eyes blazed.

“Who is your lord?” Malcolm fisted his hand around the hilt of his blade and squeezed hard.

She pushed herself to a standing position. “I have none.” Almost as tall as him, she looked him in the eye. “My betrothed was killed in the massacre along with my father. I am the only one to avenge their deaths.” 

Her face was a perfect oval and her pale skin looked translucent in her dark assassin's attire. 

“A female whelp. You nearly killed the King.” Malcolm sliced his sword through the air. “Take her to the feasting hall. The king will deliver judgment.” He jammed the blade into the sheath belted at his side. 

Two soldiers grabbed the slender captive by each arm and dragged her to the castle. 

Malcolm shook his head in disbelief. He had almost killed a young girl, and she nearly killed his king. What madness. How he longed for the sea at that moment. But first he’d help Kenneth get what he wanted, a united Alba. He wouldn’t leave until the Scots lived in peace and freedom. He reached down, picked up the bow she had dropped and carried it to the palace.

Long benches were pushed aside and Kenneth took his place on the throne. A crowd of soldiers and servants parted for Malcolm as he strode forward to face his king. Kenneth's black, green, and blue plaid bratt, wrapped his shoulders and chest where a round, gold broach pinned it to his checkered tunic. An ancient gold torque banded his neck and his thick red hair hung long and loose.

“Cousin, you are acquainted with Lady Bethoc.” Kenneth pointed his head to the dark-haired Pict who stood before him. Her features were set in a tight scowl.

“Yes, the assassin.” Malcolm gazed into fiery green eyes which sparkled with hatred. He handed her bow to Kenneth.

“Ah, so this is the weapon.” There was a thin smile on the king’s face as he turned the bow over in his hands. “Charming.”

Bethoc spit at him.

Guards rushed forward, but Kenneth gestured them to move back. “She cannot slay me with her spittle. As much as she may want to.” He let out a scornful laugh. 

Bethoc's face turned red from the taunt. Malcolm knew she was stronger than she looked and barmy as well. Kenneth was mad to rile the lass. 

The king noticed Malcolm's expression and pierced him with a trust-me-I-know-what-I am-doing glare. Kenneth leaned forward and in a hushed voice asked him, “What think you of the lady?” 

Malcolm folded his arms across his chest. “With rumors of mac Alpin's treason branding you a bloodthirsty tyrant, you cannot give proof to the lies by executing a lass mad with grief.” 

“I ask not what you say of this matter. What do you think of her? She is a bonny lass, is she not?” 

Malcolm was shocked. Had his cousin taken an interest in this whelp? “Kenneth.” He cleared his throat. “The lass tried to kill you. You cannot mean to bed her?” 

“I was thinking along those lines, but not for myself.” The king flashed a wry grin. 

“What say you, Kenneth?” Malcolm reached out one arm, “Kill her?” Then the other, to indicate a second choice, “Pardon her?” He leaned close to Kenneth's face. “But do not hold her here. She is mad.” 

“It is not wise to kill her.” Kenneth leaned back. “Yet, I cannot free her least she make another attempt on my life. I need someone I trust to guard her night and day.” 

“You mean to keep her in the dungeon until she dies?”

 “No.” The king leaned forward in his oaken throne. “I mean to give you a worthy reward, a bestowal, a beautiful Pict noblewoman for your wife.” 

“You jest?” Malcolm looked hard at Kenneth's face. “A wife? No.” He belonged to the sea, he had no use for a wife. And this one was wild and crazy. “Are you daft?”

Kenneth lowered his tone almost to a whisper yet kept its intensity and edge. “She means to murder me. If not beheaded, she needs to be guarded by the one person I can count on.” 

“God's teeth, but you are given to moon-mad musings. Do not do this.” 

“She will try to kill me, again.” Kenneth turned his head toward Bethoc. “I can see it in her eyes and so can you.” 

“I will not have it.” He could not hold back the furry from his tone and the king jerked his head back toward him again. “Do this and I find my pelt and depart this eve. Do not doubt me, cousin.” 

“So be it, I can do naught but execute her.” 

“If you would spare her life by wedding her to me,” Malcolm reached out his arm, “then do the same by betrothing her to someone other than me.” He flicked his hand toward his other cousin. “Bequeath her to Donald.” 

“He cannot tame this one.” The king’s shoulder length hair fluttered as he shook his head. “He has no way with women. You know this.”

Donald shook his head in agreement, surely not wanting the wild wench foisted upon him. 

“I will not have it.” Malcolm stressed each word, emphasizing this was his final say on the matter. He took a step back.

“Very well.” Kenneth tilted his head toward Bethoc and held his piercing gaze on her. “You will die for your attempt on my life.” 

“I shall kill you first.” Her breathing came hard, her mouth was set in a fierce scowl.

Malcolm could tell she was frightened. “She is a woman.” 

Kenneth pointed his head toward Malcolm. “Take her outside, sever her head, and hang it on the gate as the Picts did to my sire and to yours.” 

“I fight for you, I do not murder for you. Choose another man.” 

The two men stared at each other, unblinking, till Kenneth broke the silence. “Donald, take care of this. Sever her head and hang it up for all to see we will have no assassins here. Women or men.”

“As you say, my king.” Donald grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly to the door.

Chapter Two

 “Halt.” He yelled at Donald then wheeled back to Kenneth. “Do not kill the lass. I will wed her.” Once she was no longer a risk to his cousin and the kingdom of Alba was safe, Malcolm could return to his real life. His real world. “Kenneth, I accept Bethoc for my wife, but only under the bond of hand fasting. When it is time for me to go my own way then I shall.” 

The king paused and his brow crinkled in thought then he nodded to Malcolm. “It shall be done.” 

Bethoc's eyes widened. Her face went pale. “No. I will have no Scot for my husband.” 

“It is not your decision. Malcolm, will make sure you do not kill anyone.” Kenneth leaned back against the oaken throne. 

“I would rather die.” Bethoc lifted her chin in defiance. 

Malcolm let out a chuckle of frustration. “I share the sentiment.”

Kenneth arched his brows as he peered at Malcolm. “If she tries to kill you, slay her.”

Bethoc's teeth clenched and her dark eyebrows shot up, as blazing green eyes stabbed Malcolm with a loathsome threat of a hundred deaths. He almost bit his tongue from laughter at the woman's dramatic expression. 

Malcolm glanced askance at his king. “Well, this should be a quaint wedding night.”

 “You will have to sleep sometime, Scot, and I will kill you then,” Bethoc snarled through still clenched teeth. 

“Tie her to the bed before you nod off.” Kenneth flashed a wry grin. 

“I rather like the thought of that.” Malcolm smiled in earnest as he envisioned her long, earthy-brown hair fanned out across his bed. Her neck arched as she writhed and screamed in ecstasy of love play. Then Malcolm flinched. What had happened? He was thinking like a human. 

Kenneth nodded at his brother, Donald. “Tell the priest to prepare the chapel for a wedding at dawn.”

* * * *

Bethoc rubbed her hands against her shoulders to ease the bite of the chill, damp chapel. She wore nothing but her dark tunic and braies and her cowl pulled back from her head. Her husband to be had not offered her his woolen bratt to keep her warm. Those addled Scots hadn't even lit enough candles. Bethoc's long chestnut hair swept from one shoulder to the other as she jerked her head and huffed. She’d failed to take vengeance on her sire’s death. The tattoos on her left thigh, depicting her ancestry tingled. She’d let her family down. Kenneth would be dead if only she'd drawn back the bow, but she could not kill a man in his sleep. Bethoc had never killed anyone.