The Scottish Selkie by Cornelia Amiri (Celtic Romance Queen)

he’d handed her, through her chestnut hair. 
    As she strode to the door of the rath, Malcolm pointed to her bare feet and shook his head. “I was awakened by a servant rapping on the door before the cocks crowed. He brought back your shoes and I sat them by the hearth.” 
    Bethoc glanced toward the fireplace with no real interest. 
    “Put them on,” Malcolm chided with a smile. “You are a princess, a lady. Women of your standing wear shoes.” 
    Sluggishly, she grabbed the shoes by the hearth and slipped the confining leather onto her feet, then turned and headed out the door. Malcolm followed her down the well trodden path. The trill of a lark and the song of a thrush added a spice of sound to the zesty air. Bethoc brushed her hand against the dew-covered leaves of a mulberry bush as she walked to the palace. Huge oaken doors were pulled back, welcoming the Scots into the warm, hospitable, round hall to break their fast. 
    Malcolm stayed closely behind Bethoc, as if the sway of her hips entranced him. Their feet crackled against the trampled rushes spread over the dirt floor. Bethoc and Malcolm took a seat at a long, wooden bench. 
    She curled her fingers around a clay cup and gulped down sweet, soothing ale.
    Malcolm took a swig of the golden brew before dunking his bread in it. “Bethoc, this bow of yours, do you know how to use it?” 
    “Yes.” I almost killed Kenneth, did I not?
    “Will you show me?” His dark eyes sparked with challenge. 
    “Are you asking me to shoot you?” Bethoc's nose twitched from the mingling scents of ale, smoke, and fresh baked bread. 
    “I need to see your skill first hand. We have a target in the practice yard, so you will not have to kill anyone.” 
    “How disappointing.” 
    Malcolm shook his head and chuckled. “Shall we?” He glanced at her feet then flashed a scowl. 
    Bethoc hadn't realized she had slid off her shoes again. With a toss of her head, she slipped her leather shoes back on and followed Malcolm. My skill with the bow? My aim could fall short and I might mistakenly shoot my lord husband. Bethoc let out a low chortle as they walked outside. How can I tell the difference between a target and a Scot? Bethoc laughed louder as they cut across a barren field to get to the practice yard. 
    Oengus already stood on the practice field, waving his long sword in the air in an awkward attempt to hone his skills, which were obviously lacking. 
    Malcolm looked him directly in the eyes. “Hasten to the castle and fetch Bethoc's bow.” 
    As Oengus ran off to do Malcolm's bidding, Bethoc peered at the bull hide target and intently at the scarlet dot in the center. “I can hit yon mark.” 
    “With how many tries?” Malcolm asked dismissively. 
    “I can hit it on the first try.” Bethoc grinned and placed one hand on her hip. 
    “But can you hit it twice?” Malcolm inhaled. “Mayhaps thrice?” 
    “Yes.” I am not dim-witted. I know what you are up to . “You want to see if I have real skill? If I could have killed Kenneth?” 
    Malcolm folded his arms across his chest and exhaled. “No. If you had shot Kenneth you would have killed him. He was in your sight and did not foresee the shot. I do want to see what real skill you have, if any.” 
    “I could pretend I have no skill and fool you.” 
    “Yes, but you will not.” With his eyes alert and gleaming, Malcolm held a cunning expression on his face.
    “Why not?” Bethoc heard the baffled tone in her voice and she knew it shown on her face. Many things he said puzzled her.
    “You have too much pride to belittle yourself, even with good cause.” 
    The Scot was smarter than she thought. Bethoc couldn't pretend to be less than she was.
    “Yes. I will show you my true skill.”
     “Good.” Malcolm turned toward Oengus, who had returned with Bethoc's bow and arrows. Taking the weapon from him, Malcolm handed it to Bethoc. 
    Gripping the bow in her hand Bethoc thought, but a day ago,