The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4 (4 page)

Logan nodded, having predicted the necessity of the doctor remaining in residence. Winterthorne was too far off the beaten path to summon him again on such a cold night. “I have instructed my butler to prepare a room for you. A footman is waiting at the stairs to escort you.” His tone dripped of distaste.

Manners
, Logan reminded himself.
Manners
.

“Thank you, Dr. Forsythe,” he managed a slight grin.

God, how he despised company. Yet, Logan now housed not one, but two unwelcome houseguests.

This, he predicted, would be an interminable night.

Once assured that the physician was settled, Logan took to his same spot, perched outside Miss Sutton’s door. He would refer to her as such until he learned which Miss Sutton he was safeguarding.

His maid had taken her leave, which left him alone amid the flickering shadows cast by the wall sconces and the occasional creaks that were, quite simply, Winterthorne.

The estate groaned at night, its aging wood settling, its rafters rasping.

Logan often wondered how many secrets this old home had been privy to. In his estimation, the number ranged from hundreds to possibly thousands over the centuries. Regardless, Winterthorne harbored all of them, sustaining the full weight with dignity.

Perhaps that is why it groaned late at night … because the secrets were too cumbersome to carry without some sort of outcry.

Logan understood such a burden better than most.

Through narrowed eyes, he again scrutinized his pocket watch. Though barely able to discern the time, the faint, repetitive
tick
ensured that it passed nevertheless.

A muffled scream ignited Logan’s every nerve ending as he shot to his feet and shoved the bedchamber door open. His eyes scanned the room, which was cast in amber silhouettes, noting that sconces remained lit, as did the hearth. The bedding was disheveled and the bed glaringly empty.

Where is she?

Searching for his guest, he studied every inch of the room. His senses alert, the faint sound of rapid breaths drew his attention to the far corner of the bedchamber. As Logan proceeded closer to the noise, his boots were muffled by the Aubusson rug underneath his feet.

Rocking on the floor with her arms embracing her knees was his guest. She wore a shift that belonged to one of his maids, while her hair was tangled in knots of honey-colored waves and curls that cascaded over her shoulders.

The hue of her hair, he remembered. As well as her eyes, hazel that changed color with her mood and her surroundings. They could appear green against a lush bed of grass, or blue when she wore periwinkle. Adding to their allure were the flecks of amber that warmed in the sunlight. Her eyes were extraordinary, just like the young woman had known.

Bella.

Logan’s fingers twitched causing him to clench his hand into a tight fist. He yearned to touch her, yearned for the young woman he once knew … once loved. His heart skipped a beat as he knelt in front of his guest, his remembrances wreaking havoc upon his once contained sentimentalities.

This could be one of two people
, he reminded himself. Both women were now corrupt. Logan didn’t need either, didn’t want either.

Yet, why did his silent declarations cause his spine to quiver? Cause his heart to lurch within his chest? Cause his very soul to sink like an anchor within him?

The answer eluded him. As did the strange sensation that rushed through his veins as he knelt before the woman on the floor.

He studied her as she swayed back and forth, in a somewhat jerking fashion. How does one approach a woman he is acquainted with, but whose identity evades him?

A floorboard shifted beneath his weight, the sound causing his companion to flinch, her wide eyes searching his with an urgency, with a distress, he was well accustomed to seeing, having witnessed such panic, even having caused it, during the war.

In his past, that same past that he no longer wished to recall. Brimming with so much terror that the mere recollection caused his mind to churn as hundreds of faces and battlefield images fired in his brain like cannons.

Such horror was palpable, like the odor of blood or death. It held its own stench – one he couldn’t quite describe.

The blonde staring back at him reeked of it.

“You’re safe,” he assured her.

His tone had taken a cloying quality, which meant one thing and his blood ran cold …

Logan hoped this was Bella.

The realization alone all but killed him.

Because she had rejected him. Because years had passed. And because, though Arabella had been scandalized, her deeds were still far more respectable than his own sins.

If she thought him unworthy of her before, Bella would most certainly feel more persuaded of it once she learned of his gruesome actions during their time apart.

Still, he wanted this frightened woman to be his Bella. Because now, even after all these years, he ached for her.

His guest began to rub her hands together. “There was blood. So much blood.” She clawed at her bandage, then at her flesh, as if she could rid her hands of the crimson stains if she rubbed harder, scratched deeper.

“You have a cut on your hand, but that was a superficial wound and has ceased bleeding. You also have a cut on your face. You were bleeding but it is bandaged now.” Logan placed her cold hands in his, raising her palms in the air. “See? Your hands are clean.”

She shook her head, her voice ragged, no louder than a whisper. “Not – not my blood.”

If not hers, then whose?

Logan’s brow furrowed, causing his head to ache as he studied his guest’s hands. He’d been contemplating what had happened to her. Tension flooded his fatigued limbs as he now pondered what she could have possibly done.

“Where am I?” Her hands were twitching, her nails digging into her flesh and his.

“My estate in Northamptonshire,” Logan seized her hands tighter, fanning her fingers, hoping to stop her from harming herself. He rubbed her knuckles with the pads of his fingers until her joints relaxed, albeit a mere fraction.

Miss Sutton’s gaze returned to his, though a tuft of hair the color of spun gold hid one eye. Devoid of recognition, her amber eyes pierced his soul.

Of course she failed to remember him. Whether she was Arabella or Sybil, one fact was clear: Logan had transformed drastically from the young man he once was. His face possessed the scars from his numerous heinous acts. Why would this woman recognize him?

Blinking, she muttered, “Northamptonshire,” as if dazed.

Logan had witnessed enough trauma to recognize that his guest was in shock. Eager to ring for the doctor, he began to pull his hand away.

Pain radiated in his palms as her nails pierced his flesh. “What happened to me? I – I can’t …”

Words trailing off, her chest began to heave as she struggled for air. “Why—”

“Shush,” Logan pried his right hand free and smoothed her knotted hair. “You are safe.”

“But, I can’t – oh, God, I can’t—” she grabbed her head.

That’s when Logan saw the shiny silver object dangling from her wrist. It was a bracelet, with an oval charm.

He recognized the silver bauble at once. Both Arabella and Sybil had received the same bracelets on their fifteenth birthdays. Each was engraved with the first initial of their first name.

He reached for it, turning it within his fingers. The engraving was in a distinct script. One letter, one fluid letter …
S
… caused Logan’s throat to tighten. He felt as if a rope was coiling around his windpipe like a noose constricting his airflow.

Because, sitting before him was Sybil Sutton.

The last person he wished to see.

“Why can’t I remember anything?” her eyes searched his once again, her gaze overwrought with desperation.

Sybil Sutton – helpless, tormented. Seeking comfort from the one person who wanted nothing more than to watch her suffer.

Perhaps not the only person, for Sybil fled from someone on this night. Who, remained a mystery at present.

As did the reason why.

“I don’t remember anything but—” her expression was marred with confusion. “What happened to me? I don’t understand.”

She began to scrub her hands again, as if to cleanse herself of whatever untold horrors had befallen her on this fateful night. Logan reached for her, hoping to halt Sybil’s efforts before she reopened her wound, before she drew blood from fresh scratches caused by her fingernails.

Yanking his wrists, she demanded with wide eyes and an expression of pure terror. “Why was I holding that knife?”

Knife?

Damn it to hell.

What had the witch done?

And what was Logan going to do with her now?

“S
ybil,” she muttered aloud, her voice hoarse, her limbs shaking.

Ever since her host read the engraved initial on her bracelet, that was all she knew.

Her first name.

Sybil.

But, didn’t her companion refer to her by another name during their first encounter?

What was it?

What precisely did he say?

Wracking her muddled brain to recall what the man had muttered, Sybil’s mind remained enveloped in a thick haze. Unable to conjure any facts, she remained adrift in a shadowy abyss. Nothing felt familiar; nothing sparked even the most remote recognition.

Shapes flickered on the walls, illuminating the large bedchamber in a warm glow. She watched them as they moved along the walls, though it was as if she was staring at foreign objects. They conjured no memories, or images. Just nothing …

Nothing but one word –
Sybil
– a name that felt foreign, though it was her own.

“I must ring for the doctor,” her host’s tone now dripped with an icy reserve.

He was kind when he first entered the room. Reassuring, even. What caused such a drastic metamorphosis in his baritone?

“Who are you?” Sybil beseeched him. “Do you know me?”

He exhaled and, for the first time, she noted what he wore: a white shirt with the top two buttons open and trousers. No vest, no jacket, no cravat. Improper, to be certain.

Unless …

Though her memory was hazy, she was able to piece the clues before her. She did know him. Why else would he speak so informally let alone rub her fingers the way he did?

“How do I know you?”

“My name is Logan,” he spoke with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “That is all I can afford you at present. The physician will be furious with me if I don’t follow his instructions to the letter and he insisted that he speak with you immediately once you had awakened.”

Logan, Mr. Logan – she was not certain if it was his first or last name, tipped his head towards his hands, one of which she continued to clutch.

“In order for me to summon the physician, I must first retrieve my hand.”

Releasing him with a jerk, Sybil studied her host as he crossed the room to tug at the bell pull. Illuminated by the warm sconces and the fire stirring within the hearth, his stature was indeed imposing.