Free The Scottish Selkie by Cornelia Amiri (Celtic Romance Queen) Page B

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. 
    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