The Scottish Selkie Read Free Page B

wing. He had an arrogant way about him, but he could make her laugh. Bethoc had not loved Drostan, but she would have made him a good wife. She’d wanted to marry him.
    “It may be so as the Picts have no love for the church. The King has spoken and I take his word next to God's.” Upon clearing his throat, the priest rushed through the vows in Latin, then nodded at Malcolm. 
    “I do,” Malcolm vowed in a flat expressionless tone. 
    The priest bobbed his head at Bethoc and she jerked away, turning her back. Ignoring Bethoc's gesture and her silence, the priest pronounced the two handfasted for a year's time. 
    Malcolm cocked his head toward Kenneth. “Now, what do I do with her?”
    “Feed her.” Kenneth rolled his eyes. “The scrawny chit must be starved. It takes a lot of energy to try to kill a king.” 
    “Come, wife.” Malcolm took her arm in his. “Let us go to the hall and break our fast.”
    It was as good a time as any to eat. Bethoc shuffled her feet at his side across the stone floor of the chapel and through the short grass toward the long wooden hall. Too sad to pull away, she let Malcolm continue to hold her arm as they entered the feasting hall through the double oaken door carved with Celtic tracery. 
    “Lady Bethoc, this is the hall where you will sup.” A puzzled look crossed Malcolm's face, he added, “and rest.” 
    Bethoc nearly bit her tongue. “I have to sleep with soldiers?”
    “No, it is here, that I have been sleeping, but I forgot I have a wife now.”
    Bethoc could tell by the crease on his brow that he was musing this over as he spoke. 
    “I have a rath on the other side of the chapel. I never use it, howbeit is mine. You will stay there. With me.” 
    As her rising rage renewed her energy, Bethoc yanked her arm from his grasp. “If you mean to have me, think again. You'll never touch me, you Scottish cur.” 
    “Scottish cur husband.Do not forget that my lady wife.” Malcolm’s lips twisted into a cynical grin. “Sit down and break your fast.”
    The rumbling of her stomach made Bethoc happy to oblige, but she vowed not to give in to any other demands this fool made. 
    She swept her eyes across the round hall, surprised at how truly small it was, crammed with a roughly hewn, long table and two padded benches as well as people to fill them. It was the Picts who had power, the Picts who had wealth. The Scots were nothing. Still, she had not known they were this poor.
    As she sat, Malcolm squeezed in next to her on the bench. Bethoc gasped as his elbow brushed against her. Even beneath her tunic, his touch made her skin tingle. She must be mad. “You sit too close. Move over.” 
    “We will be much closer tonight.” Malcolm's lips twisted into a smirk. 
    Bethoc's palm itched to strike him. Spotting his eating dagger, carelessly laid on the table, she lunged for the blade.
    But Malcolm caught her wrist with no more effort than if he’d slapped his hand down to kill a fly. His warm fingers clamped around her like an iron manacle. 
    “My dagger.” Malcolm's eyes twinkled with amusement. 
    “You took mine. How will I eat?” 
    “M'lady, did you fear we Scots had no manners? You have not wed a barbarian. I will gladly cut your meat for you. Do Picts not serve their ladies from their plates?” 
    “Yes, but I am not your lady.” 
    “No, you are much more. You are my wife.” 
    “Ha!” Bethoc crossed her arms against her chest. He wasn't a husband, he was a guard. Well, she would show him. She wasn't a wife; she was a menacing foe. 
    A servant girl set a bowl of porridge and a spoon before her. Bethoc dipped the tip the wooden spoon into the lumpy gruel. 
    “To be sure, I do not even need to slice your fare.” Malcolm smiled at her as if she was a small child.
    Holding the spoon in her hand, Bethoc gave a twist of her wrist and flipped the glob of porridge onto Malcolm's face. The white blob landed on his forehead and dribbled down his nose.
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