The Scottish Selkie Read online

  Revised version of Danger Is Sweet by Cornelia Amiri

  Previous novel published by Awestruck

  Copyright 2004 by Cornelia Amiri

  All rights reserved

  The Scottish Selkie

  Copyright 2011 by Cornelia Amiri

  All rights reserved

  Dedicated to:

  Ros and Paul Shepherd as their unending hard work and devotion to the Houston Highland games each year provides everyone in the Houston Texas area with the opportunity for amazing Scottish food, music, fun, and shopping and in addition it’s an unending source of a wealth of inspiration and knowledge for me.

  To Cherrie Gabioni and Diana Driver, immensely talented authors and my dear friends, who gave unending help and encouragement in asking for my rights back on my back list and placing the books directly on Kindle.

  In acknowledgment of Julie Darcy my cover artist, for creating the trailers for my books throughout the years, dressing up The Scottish Selkie with this fabulous, sexy cover and for always being there as a supportive and knowledgeable author friend.

  This book wouldn’t be the same without them.

  The Scottish Selkie

  By

  Cornelia Amiri

  Chapter One

  Scotland ­­- 843 AD

  Ablaze in the hearth fire, red and orange flames cast a golden glow across the round hall. Having gnawed the boar bone clean of salty meat, Malcolm tossed it on the feasting board. At his side, the Scot king, Kenneth mac Alpin, sat an empty tankard of ale down with a clank.

  Though not as tall as Malcolm, the king was of manly height with a strong yet wiry build, straight, dark hair hung to his shoulders and framed his face, offset by bright green eyes and firm chin.

  Rowdy boast and chuckles of seven plaid-cloaked Pict earls impelled Malcolm to tilt his head back and whisper, “When you are crowned king, what then? How will you tame these wild Picts?”

  As if waving away his concerns, Kenneth shook his hand in the smoky air, filled with heady odors of ale and roasting meat. “There is but one way to keep Scots and Picts united, by the very stone which Jacob laid his head when he dreamed of the stairway to heaven.” Kenneth's ruddy face glowed with determination.

  Once wounded by family betrayal, Malcolm wasn't easily lured by Kenneth's confidence. “You speak of a Scottish custom. We Scots brought the stone from Erin. To this day, the Picts curse us. They would all be happy if we went back to Erin. Why would the earls or any Pict honor Scottish traditions?”

  “Ah, Malcolm, they will honor the jewel of destiny. I mean to bring it to Scone and keep it in the heart of Pictavia.” Kenneth's green eyes gleamed with promised glory.

  At that moment, a hump-backed, wizened bard ran his spotted fingers across the strings of an ancient harp. The Pict earls, having each poured a river of ale down their throats, were as drunk as used up whores. Though they refused to accept a Scot as Eoganan's successor, they didn't hesitate in singing along to a Scottish tune or drinking their fill of Scottish mead.

  Malcolm kept his voice low, yet still loud enough for Kenneth to hear over the Picts’ slurred, off-key singing. “You are a cunning one, Kenneth.” Malcolm paused, then in a firm voice asked, “And what of my treasure?” Keeping his tone and facial expression deceptively calm he added, “Will you bear it with you to Scone?”

  Kenneth gazed intently at his cousin. “Yes, Malcolm. I will. Near it is, never out of my grasp. I will soon yield it to you.”

  “When? When will my suffering end?” Malcolm spread his hands apart and leaned closer to Kenneth. “You think I will forgive your betrayal?”

  “I had no choice. I need you cousin.” Kenneth rested his elbow on the table, his palm open in a beseeching gesture. “I mean not to make you suffer, but this is your fate. Did you not dream of a Scot king ruling Caledonia? Alba is more your dream than it is mine.”

  Malcolm folded his hands together on the table. “Yes, ‘tis true. I will serve you well. But I long for the pleasures of the wild.”

  “I guard your treasure well, my friend. The life you long for will be yours once more.”

  Malcolm leaned forward. “When will it be so?” His tone sounded more like a dare than a query.

  “In time.” Kenneth nodded his head toward the earls. “Let us bring this feast to a close, shall we?”

  “Yes.” Malcolm placed his palm on the hilt of his sheathed sword. “My hand is ready for trouble. Go. Speak to the tattooed earls.”

  Kenneth mac Alpin stood and gestured to the bard to stop harping. Kenneth waited for the Picts to cease the horrid off tune singing. Then he paced the hall. “I was crowned king of Dalriada hence my sire's death, six years ago. But you leaders of the Picts have yet to bestow my rightful crown of King of Caledonia to me.”

  Drostan, the youngest of the earls, stood. Tall as Malcolm, with a tan complexion which brought out the blue circles tattooed on his forehead, curly hair, dark as coal, framed his oval face, and his deep brown eyes shone with fury. “Kenneth mac Alpin!” Drostan yelled as if calling down from a hill in the highlands. “You say you have a right to rule the Picts. I challenge you. Fight me here and now to the death. The champion shall be King.”

  Malcolm scooted his chair back, ready to rise at any startling move Drostan made.

  Kenneth didn't take his eyes off the challenger. “Yes, Drostan Mc Galam, let us clash, forthwith, for the kingship of Caledonia.”

  The oaken walls of the round hall shook with zealous hurrahs of both Scots and Picts. Drostan and Kenneth moved to the center of the crowd and circled each other in a stalking move, like two full-antlered stags ready to fight.

  Kenneth looked for his opponent's weakness, as did Malcolm. The Scot was open to a fair fight, but he wouldn't allow Pictish trickery. Kenneth was the best swordsman in Dalriada, next to Malcolm. His cousin could hold his own in a fair match, but so could Drostan. One of them would die this night for the crown of Caledonia. Mayhaps Kenneth?

  They made their move. Swords clashed as iron struck iron. They stepped back, then circled each other, vying for position. Drostan stepped forward and thrust. Kenneth parried. Drostan whipped his sword outward. Kenneth was hit. A small cut on his upper shoulder; scarlet blood seeped more than ran.

  Drostan attacked again. Kenneth sidestepped and thrust forward, slicing a large cut across his opponent's upper thigh. The Pict let out an audible groan of pain. Blood cascaded down his leg, yet he managed to lunge forward. Lashing out, his blade scraped Kenneth's left cheek. A mere scratch. The warriors lunged at the same time. Swords clashed and crossed. They back stepped. Circled each other. Thrust. Clashed. Swords still reverberating, they sidestepped then moved in. Once more, hard iron sparked against hard iron.

  Though Drostan was injured, he had nicked Kenneth twice, drawing blood.

  The Pict gazed intensely at Kenneth and warned, “Your reign will end before it has begun.”

  With his sword arm straight and the point held in line with Kenneth's heart, Drostan lunged. The Scot king sidestepped, pivoted, and whipped his blade downward. He knocked the sword out of Drostan's grasp.

  He looked Drostan in the eye and retorted, “I think not.”

  Kenneth shifted his weight forward and ran his blade through Drostan's chest. Blood gushed forth. Drostan fell at Kenneth's feet. Dead. Kenneth held the hilt loosely in his hand and knelt before the still body, fallen on the scarlet soaked floor. At that instant, an earl drew his sword, and leapt onto the banquet table, before jumping to the floor in front of Kenneth. The Pict lunged at the king.

  Malcolm leapt forward, his long sword held out straight, piercing the Pict's chest before the man could strike.

  Talorc, a stout built Pi
ct with a large moustache, shouted, “Avenge our brothers.”

  Donald, Kenneth's younger brother, brandished his sword and led the Scot guards into the fray. All the earls rushed forward with swords drawn. Iron clang against iron. Bodies fell. Men groaned with mortal wounds as they hit the crimson stained floor.

  Picts moved toward Malcolm with swords ready. He went through everyone one of them, until he fought the last earl standing. When he ran his blade clean through the man's chest, he pulled it out and slowly looked around.

  Malcolm glanced first at the mac Alpins; by God's mercy Kenneth and Donald still stood. Unharmed, save for cuts at the face and head and minor wounds of arms and legs. Next he took in Kenneth's men, one lay dead and two had serious wounds. But, the Picts having been so outnumbered fared worse. All seven earls lay dead on the feasting hall floor.

  Too much ale turned a feast of diplomacy into a blood bath. Kenneth would reign as king of Caledonia. No one was left to dispute his claim to the throne.

  Malcolm took a deep breath to quiet the tension which overtook him in the aftermath of the skirmish. He reached for a jug of ale and poured his goblet full. Lifting his glass in the air, in a strong voice he toasted, “Long live Kenneth, King of Dalriada and Caledonia.”

  Donald raised his goblet high and toasted, “To a united Alba.”

  “To Alba,” Malcolm agreed as Kenneth tossed the golden liquid down his throat.

  * * * *

  Malcolm sat on Kenneth's right and Donald on his brother's left at a board laid with palters of succulent lamb, fish, scallops, and clams.

  A blend of hardy, savory, and fishy aromas mingled in the air as Donald leaned his ear toward Kenneth while he sliced a slab of mutton with his feasting dagger.

  “Malcolm has spent the last days faithfully guarding my kingdom from tattooed Pict widows collecting the bodies of their dead.” Kenneth chewed his food then reached for his tankard of ale.

  “Yes. Vengeance lends might to the weakest of warriors.” Malcolm defended his zealousness to protect his king. “Women as well,” he added as he recalled that his da and Malcolm's father lost their lives at the hands of Picts. He wouldn't let his guard down, not even for a woman.

  “Do you think a woman would attack Kenneth?” Donald's eyebrows shot up.

  “I say, little brother, many a woman has attacked me in their passion. Both Scot and Pict maids alike cannot keep their hands off me,” Kenneth gibed.

  “In truth Malcolm, ‘tis best you guard my brother from these wild Pict women.”

  “It is not that I guard him from the women, I merely mean to get first pickings.” Malcolm leaned back in his chair and chuckled along with his cousins.

  But as he stared at the floor of the feasting hall, Malcolm pictured the wood planks soaked in blood, as they were the day of the feast. He blinked his eyes to black out the image in his head and exhaled, slowing the erratic pace of his heart.

  “Are you looking for the hidden trenches set with deadly blades the earls plunged into? They are said not to be under the floor boards but underneath the benches we sit on.” Donald's lips curved into a cynical smirk.

  “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 attir
e.

  “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.”