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were followed by two lads, each carrying a dish of stewed goose, and more lasses with platters of the choice joints of juicy stags. Other servants kept the baskets of bread and the goblets of ale filled. 
    Big, barking wolfhounds, running behind the rows of feasters, scooted their large, sprawling bodies under the table to get their fill of scraps. Bethoc tried to be annoyed, but she couldn't help but chuckle as the huge, shaggy dogs tried to crawl beneath the low tables. 
    When the human feasters had their fill of meat, two serving boys carried in a golden brown cake, coated with sweet mead. Bethoc knew her mouth had dropped open. Her tongue almost held the taste of fresh butter and wild honey. 
    “Riona churns a creamy butter,” Malcolm said as if he knew her thoughts. “The taste is so sweet, it will bring a tear to your eye.” 
    “Will it now?” Bethoc gazed at the honeyed cake. She took a deep whiff of the tempting, nectarous aroma. As much as she tried to frown, she couldn't help but smile. It smelled so sweet. Bethoc turned to Riona. “How many spoons of mead did you pour over it?” 
    The blonde girl grinned and tilted her chin upward. “Four.” 
    Bethoc realized she had run her tongue over her upper lip as if she tasted the honeyed treat. She couldn't help herself. “I will have a slice.” 
    Malcolm turned to one of the serving boys. “Fetch a piece for me and my bride.” 
    The redhead serving-lad brought back a large slice of lush cake. Malcolm tore off a hunk and held it to Bethoc's lips. The honey icing dribbled down her chin. 
    He stared at her chin as if he longed to lick the thick honey from it. He swallowed. His intense gaze reminded her of a starving seal who had just caught a fish.
     He raised his gaze and stared at her lips. “Eat, my lovely wife.”
    What could she do? The cake looked so soft, moist, and delicious. She bit into the crumbly, golden treat, then feasted from his hand even as her cheeks burned with embarrassment.
    “Now it's your turn, husband.” She tore a flaky chunk from Malcolm's slice, held it up to his lips, squished it against his mouth, and rubbed it in his face.
    The crowd let out a bawdy round of deep guffaws and chortles. Bethoc pealed with a high-pitched triumphant giggle. Everyone in the hall laughed, except Malcolm. 
    After wiping his face with both hands, he flicked the mushy cake off his fingers. He grinned at Bethoc. “At least it was fully cooled.” Malcolm turned his head toward Kenneth. “Now, that we have had our sweets, I deem we retire for the night.” 
    On-lookers waved their goblets in the air, and between snorts and snickers, they yelled out the most lecherous remarks Bethoc had heard all night.
    She was mortified. Bethoc wasn't about to participate in any nuptial bedding. No! This could not be happening. It was a bad dream. It had to be.
    As an odd habit, she kicked off her shoes which made her feel more grounded, more in control. She wiggled her bare feet against the hard dirt floor and looked at Malcolm.
    “I have not yet finished eating my slice of cake.” 
    He smiled mischievously and turned to Kenneth. “It appears my lady wife is hungry for sweets. My king, did you not have cook make black pudding on this, my wedding feast?” 
    She did not like the wry grin on Malcolm's face nor the way his eyebrows jiggled. What was he about? The hall drew to a hush as if the on-lookers knew what he meant to do. A strong foreboding rippled through Bethoc as she faced Malcolm and schooled herself to stare him straight in the eye. 
    “Black Pudding! Yes, cousin, of course we have black pudding.” Kenneth gestured to the serving boys. “Lads, bring forth pudding for the bridegroom.” The king leaned back in his throne and glanced at Malcolm and Bethoc as if they were famed thespians sent to entertain him.
    Each boy held onto one side of a wide, shallow bowl of blood pudding.
    Before they could set it on the table, Malcolm ordered,