Amanda Scott by Prince of Danger Page A

Chalamine,” she said. “It would make you drowsy, but I doubt that it would ease your pain. I do not know southernwood. Is it an herb?”
    “Aye, and useful for dyeing, too, but ’tis rare in Britain,” he said. “One finds it more easily in Spain and . . . and elsewhere. I usually carry some with me.”
    “Have you been to Spain, then?”
    “Aye, because my foster father believes travel is educational.”
    “I’m sure it is,” she agreed. “What color dye does southernwood produce?”
    “Deep yellow. In some areas, its plants bear large flowers in great profusion, and the ancient Greeks and Romans thought it magical, especially as an aphrodisiac when placed under a mattress. I cannot vouch for its worth in that way,” he added with a smile. “But as a composer it is far more efficient than chamomile.”
    Feeling heat in her cheeks at his casual mention of aphrodisiacs, she applied her attention to rinsing out her cloth in the burn. Then, realizing that she would not get all the blood out of it, she bent to tear another piece of cambric from her shift.
    As she turned back to face him after soaking the second piece, he said gently, “I should not have said that about southernwood’s aphrodisiacal powers, lass, not to a maiden who clearly understands the meaning of such. Forgive me.”
    “I have naught to forgive, sir. You made a learned observation, nothing more.”
    “Faith, but you should not even be alone like this with me, and if that lad does not return before nightfall . . .” He left the rest unsaid.
    She had not considered that detail while the necessity of escaping their captors and fears that her companion might expire had consumed her thoughts, and she dismissed it now. Michael’s recovery was more important. She did not want anything to happen to him, certainly not before he had done much more to satisfy her curiosity about himself and the men who had captured them.
    Until he mentioned aphrodisiacs, she had thought of him only as a fellow victim of mysterious assailants, albeit a distractingly handsome one.
    That last thought startled her, and in order to divert her imagination, she said abruptly, “We can go back inside now.”
    He nodded, and when he stood and turned toward her with a smile that reminded her of how warm and sensual his voice had been in the darkness, she added hastily, “I have been wondering about something else, sir. How is it that those men were able to follow you all the way from Eilean Donan to that cave without your seeing them? The distance must be at least five miles.”
    “Waldron is highly skilled at such things, and his men likewise,” he said, gently touching her arm to nudge her toward the hut. “Moreover, I failed to realize they might predict my visit to Kintail and was not as wary as I should have been.”
    “But might they not simply have followed you to Eilean Donan? Indeed, if they did not, then how—?”
    “Waldron would not have had to follow me. He knows of my friendship with Kintail and . . . and other details that might have led him to make the conjecture, but I do not think he has allies of his own in this area. As to whether he might have followed me, I am certain he did not, because I traveled by boat from Oban.”
    “Is your home near Oban then?” she asked. Oban was not far from Lochbuie.
    He smiled. “Nay, lass, but I do know the countryside thereabouts better than here. ’Tis how I ken Hector the Ferocious. Is the man really such a tyrant?”
    She blinked at the abrupt transition. “What makes you think he is one at all?”
    “You said that all husbands are, so I supposed that your experience living with him and your sister had produced that opinion. And, too, men do call him Hector the Ferocious with good cause, I’m told.”
    That her words had stirred him to think such a thing of Hector startled her, and she paused to think just how she could most honestly reply.
    Michael watched her as they strolled back to the hut, wondering