The Scottish Selkie Read Online Free PDF Page B

excitement at the image those words conjured. “She does appear tempting.”

 
    Chapter Four
     
     
    “You mean to search me, your bride, for weapons afore attending my own wedding feast?” Bethoc stared at him. If she had a weapon at hand she’d tried to kill him. “You are mad.” 
    “I would be mad to think you had not happened upon a weapon to wield against Kenneth.” Malcolm knelt and patted her down from her thighs to her ankles. She abruptly stepped back. “More fool me, I should have sought out a weapon instead of cleaning this hovel. I did not even know the Scot king planned a nuptial feast. We are not truly wed.” 
    Malcolm moved forward. “Yes, we are married.” He ran his splayed fingers over her hips.
    “Beast!” Bethoc slapped his hands away. “We will not be when a year and a day have passed. If you live that long.” Her head spun with ways to kill him.
     He placed his hands firmly on her waist then scanned his fingers up her body. Her thoughts turned to mush as a delicious jolt of heat shot through her as his palms came to rest on each breast, cupping one in each hand. His warm hands lingered at the sensitive mounds. Their eyes met. Bethoc's skin tingled where his fingers had touched her. A flicker of heat in his eyes revealed his anticipation of the nuptial bedding.
    At once, he steeled his features to an expressionless mask and dropped his arms to his side. “Well, you have no weapons.” 
    “It is as I told you.”
    “Forgive me m'lady, if I do not believe a word you say. I have found assassins often lie.” 
    As a surge of rage shot through her, she forgot all about his strange fingers and how they felt on her skin. With a defiant toss of her head, her brownish-red hair rippled across her back. 
    “Come, you must not be late to your wedding feast.” 
    She snapped her head back to him. “I would not want to miss it.” 
    “Riona makes a fine cake. The best in all of Caledonia.” Malcolm flashed a mischievous expression.
    Suddenly, she recalled the feel of his fingers upon her skin just moments ago. 
    “I have no appetite, for food or otherwise.” But she didn't feel as sure of herself as her words portrayed.
    When he was near, heat rose from the pit of her stomach and her knees went as soft as churned butter. It made her hate him all the more; well at least it's what she told herself. 
    “It is your feast and the King requests your presence.” 
    “He is not my king.” She wanted to shove him, but she doubted she would be able to budge the big lout. His body was as thick as an oak and his brain hard as wood as well. 
    He flashed an irritating grin. “Yes, he is.” 
    Bethoc folded her arms against her chest and clutched her elbows. The oaf did the same. She sidestepped him and stomped off to the banquet hall. 
    By the sound of his footfalls and the way the hackles on her neck rose, she knew he followed. 
    When they entered the hall, the din of the feasters’ hurrahs grated on her ears. The Scot fools! For what reason do they cheer? 
    Malcolm clasped her hand and moving in front of her, led her to the banquet table. She resisted the urge to pull out of his grip. It seemed safer to be with him as they passed drunken Scots shouting lewd remarks about the bedding to come this eve. Rather than defend her against the bawdy jibes, Malcolm thanked them all for the well wishes.
    Finally they came to their place beside Donald. As Bethoc sat down, she noticed all the men clutched tankards of ale to their chest. They were like Pictish warriors in that way. They had to have their brew. 
    The jest grew increasingly lewd and Bethoc felt a flush of heat with each toast. Malcolm's ale breath began to make her feel ill and she turned her head away. Everything about this ridicules façade of a wedding feast was making her addled until her traitorous stomach growled approval at the wafting smell of thick, roasted meat.
    Servant girls bearing silver platters of succulent pork