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“Bring it over here.” 
    Bethoc stepped back on her bare feet. Malcolm turned toward the bowl and grabbed a glob of the thick mix of oats, barley, and pigs’ blood. She could smell the tangy mint used to flavor the fare. She stood, shocked, unable to move, as he brushed his hand full of blood pudding down her neck, and plastered her with black goo, from collar to waist. It was sticky and thick and disgusting.
    “You rat bane son of a horn headed Scottish cur.”  
    As Malcolm chuckled, chortled, and snorted, Kenneth heaved with laughter, while Donald almost fell onto the floor, he guffawed so hard. 
    Like a kitten in the rain, her body shook with humiliation. She’d make him pay. Husband or not, he had overstepped his bounds. Bethoc no longer had any wont to kill Kenneth. No, Malcolm was her bane now, the man she wanted dead.
    “My lady Bethoc, it appears you have stained your gown.” Malcolm's laughter broke off, his eyes smoldering as he stood. “We need retire so you can change out of your soiled tunic.” 
    Grabbing her hand, he pulled her with force from the hall. She pulled back, trying to yank her hand out of his grasp, even though the force of her jerks stung her wrist. But the tall, towering, lout tugged her onward, down the path to his rath. 
    “Let me go!" Bethoc screamed in her shrillest banshee imitation. 
    “I cannot let you go, Lady. You prove too dangerous. If I free you, I will either end up shot with an arrow or accosted by food.” 
    “Do not think to touch me. I am not a real wife to you. I will not lay with you.” 
    “Good. For in truth, m'lady you reek of pig's blood.” 
    The giant, smelly Scotsman had the pluck to insult her. She took a whiff of herself. Her lips quivered. Bethoc ceased her struggle and pealed with laughter. “What a sight I must be. Plastered with pig's blood.” 
    Malcolm chuckled and loosened his grip, holding her hand gently. 
    “And it is my wedding night.” 
    “So it is. Come,” he said with a tinge of humor in his voice.
    “Scot, you deserve a bride drenched in pig's blood. I am not washing it off.” Bethoc placed her hands on her hips. 
    “Do as you wish,” Malcolm retorted with a challenge in his tone. He swept his eyes down her body and his gaze lingered on her feet. “Bethoc, where are your shoes?” 
    “I have no liking for shoes.” With one hand on her hip, she said, “I took them off.” As she turned her long hair flipped over her shoulder and she strode onward toward the rath. 
    She knew Malcolm followed, as she heard is laugher all the way to her new home. Upon entering the dark round house, he lit the candles. Momentarily speechless, he took in the condition of the cottage.

Chapter Five
     
     
    “You did a good job cleaning the rath.” Malcolm couldn't recall it ever smelling so fresh and soapy. It didn't look like the same cottage. 
    “Riona and Oengus helped.” Bethoc raised her gaze to his. 
    Their eyes locked. Malcolm felt a knot big as an egg in his throat and swallowed hard. Lost in the gleam of interest and curiosity in the bright green depth of her eyes, he could hardly tear his gaze away.
    At last he’d managed to glance downward, to the nubile curve of her breast. His palms itched, recalling the weight and feel of the soft flesh in his hands when he’d checked her for weapons. The tightening in his groin almost pained him. He craved to bare those silken mounds and pinch and nibble the ripe buds. His breath grew shallow as he peered at her slim waist flaring into shapely hips and lithe thighs. The black tunic and braes accented the lines of her body and enhanced her mysterious female allure. 
    “Your shoes are off, what say you disrobe as well?” 
    “But you said I smelt of pigs’ blood and you would not touch me.” 
    He felt a pull at his groin. His heart thumped harder as his erection tightened and swelled with need and want. “Do you want me to touch you?” 
    “No and I will not disrobe. I have