The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4 (6 page)

Though Sybil nodded her understanding, her brow furrowed.

Logan turned to the doctor when the crashing of glass against the headboard erupted followed in quick succession by Sybil pouncing on Logan, holding a sharp shard against his neck.

“Tell me you didn’t hurt me,” she demanded through clenched teeth.

Logan raised his hands in surrender as a drop of blood trickled down his neck. He wasn’t certain if it was his or Sybil’s.

The physician gasped, his face quickly draining of its color.

“Dr. Forsythe, if you would kindly excuse us,” Logan took great pains for his voice to show no hint of impatience or reproach. Little did this woman know that he wasn’t afraid of her.

No, he’d conquered worse enemies.

Another droplet of blood traced a path down his neck as the doctor reached for his bag.

“Leave it,” this command caused the physician to sigh. Perhaps it was from relief? “We shall call upon you as needed. Have my butler order my coach for your return home. Thank you for your services and your confidentiality.”

“Of course, Mr. Ambrose,” Dr. Forsythe nodded. It was clear that he understood the warning in Logan’s tone, the threat it implied.

Someone was hunting his guest, after all.

The last thing Logan wanted was for the physician to send them to Winterthorne. Though, at this precise moment, with a sharp shard of glass piercing his flesh, Logan questioned his own sanity.

Silence engulfed them, the only sound being Dr. Forsythe’s faint footfalls as he exited the room and the
click
of the bedchamber door as it closed behind him.

“Tell me you didn’t hurt me,
love
,” Sybil taunted in his ear.

Battered, bruised and bloodied she still had strength. Logan admired her bravery as he yanked her arm and twisted it until she was lying on her back. Pinning her against the mattress with his hand at her wrist, he tightened his grip until she released her weapon.

Crimson blood pooled from the slash across her palm.

“Let us get one thing straight, shall we?” he straddled her lithe form as Sybil kicked to no avail. “If I wanted to hurt you, you would be dead.”

His tone was lethal.

He meant for it to be so.

Logan allowed his words sink in, incite her to acknowledge his strength, to fear his power

“You are no match for me, I assure you, love,” emphasizing his last word, he noted the gentle rise and fall of Sybil’s chest. She had ceased kicking. That must be a good sign.

Grabbing the slippery shard of glass between his fingers, Logan released her and proceeded to the table upon which the doctor’s bag was perched. Ditching the sharp fragment into a porcelain bowl upon the table, he opened the bag, searching for antiseptic and bandages. Once he found both, he turned to find Sybil sitting on the bed, knees tucked primly underneath her as she stared at her wounded hand.

“It wasn’t my blood,” she muttered, her words dangling like leaves from a vine during a windy autumn day.

Logan sat beside her, dabbing at her cut. He remained silent. There were times when reticence was best.

This was such a time.

“I had a dream – a recollection, before I awoke. It was of a bloody knife,” she turned to him, her greenish-blue eyes illuminated with flecks of amber from the sconces.

They reminded Logan of embers. The spark, the fire, Sybil always possessed. However, her gaze was now vacant, devoid of the passion he had witnessed during her previous fit of rage.

“It wasn’t my blood,” she began to shake.

He lifted a blanket from the edge of the bed, placing it over her shoulders before returning his attention to her wound. “No, I don’t believe it was.”

Sybil gulped as the antiseptic burned her skin. “Whose blood was it?”

Her question lingered as she inhaled one breath, followed by another.

Focus on the pain
, she silently instructed herself.

The discomfort was good, in the sense that it kept her alert, caused her blood to pump faster, caused her mind to search for an answer to her question.

Her quest was futile, for she found nothing. No recollections, no shadows of her past. It was as if a veil had settled within her mind. She was devoid of everything but her first name and a memory of her hands holding a bloody knife.

“Oh, dear God, what have I done?” she bit her lower lip.

Logan wound the bandage around her hand. “You ran from someone. Perhaps you were fleeing for your life?”

“What?” his words registered at a slow rate. “How do you know that?”

Silly question, really.

She had run to him, begging him for help. If she wasn’t fleeing from someone then why would she do such a thing?

Her host showed no hint that he considered her question ridiculous. Instead, his voice was steady as he answered, “You suffered a sprained ankle, a head injury, various cuts and bruises. The one fact our good old doctor failed to convey is that you have handprints on your neck.”

He finished coiling the bandage and righted it in place before meeting her gaze. His eyes were almost the same onyx as his pupils, making his appearance foreboding. The obscurity was in stark contrast to the opaque sheen of deadened skin that spanned his cheek.

This man’s appearance was ominous. Even his words, his demeanor, possessed an air of secrecy, danger and raw might.

His words lingered …
“If I wanted to hurt you, you would be dead.”

Sybil suddenly believed him. If Logan Ambrose wanted her dead, she would be. Thus, given his menacing nature, why did she feel safe with him?

Her heartbeat, strong and steady, pounded against her temples. She may not remember her life, but her heart was pumping.

She was alive.

Quite possibly because of this man sitting beside her.

Clutching the blanket tighter around her chest, Sybil couldn’t rid herself of the chills, of the lump of raw panic that caught in her throat every time she considered who tried to kill her. Swallowing hard, she touched her neck.

Someone tried to strangle her.

Now, her host could be in danger.

“Aren’t you fearful that whoever hurt me will retaliate against you for offering me protection?” her voice was little more than a ragged whisper. Like that of a child’s.

Logan smirked. “Lucky for you, I don’t frighten easily.” He patted her knee before rising to his feet.

“I shall send my maid to tidy up the mess,” he nodded towards the linens soaked with water and the scattered remnants of glass. “You should know. I am usually the person people fear.”

It was as if his last statement was an afterthought. Spoken over his shoulder as he exited her room. Yet, his words possessed a steely edge, an unspoken threat.

Yes, she was certain people feared him.

At this very moment, Sybil did as well.

But what other choice did she have but to remain with this man? Logan claimed to have known her, held secrets to her identity, to her past. And he offered her protection when she knew not who to trust.

Still, his very presence chilled her to the core.

Because he possessed the rare ability to make her feel safe and frightened at the same time.

There were layers to Logan Ambrose that she was terrified to uncover. But who is worse? The unknown danger you know, or the one who attempted to kill you?

Sybil decided to trust the former and hope she didn’t live to regret it.

S
creech
.

The deafening, high-pitched sound caused Sybil’s heart to lurch and every muscle to tense.

Another
screech
followed and she held her breath, her body frozen in place as she listened for signs that the sound was emanating from inside her room.

None presented themselves.

Gathering all the strength she could muster, Sybil clutched the bedding in a tight grip, summoning the courage to roll onto her back, remaining as silent as possible.

The fire, though dim, still crackled in the grate, illuminating the room along with several candles. Her eyes darted, scrutinizing the shadows that skulked across the ceiling.

Every nerve ending prickled, as if an army of spiders was creeping over her flesh, over every inch of her body as exhaustion laced with panic mounted to a fevered pitch.

Her fingers grew cold with dread as she listened, her senses alert, her ears ringing.

What was this screeching sound?

Where was she?

The guest room
, she silently reminded herself, But, was she on the ground level?

Sybil recited a silent prayer that she was indeed situated on the second level if not higher, her imagination conjuring unknown evil, faceless predators hunting her, trying to choke her, wanting her dead.

What if they returned for her?

What if they were outside, clawing to get in?

Slowly, she propped herself up on her elbows. Though prepared to face an intruder, no one was lurking in her bedchamber. To the contrary, the noise that presently tormented her was not lurking amid the gloomy outlines.

Another long
scrape
grated on her taut nerves, making every hair stand on end.

She managed to stand, though her limbs were stiff and sore, before staggering towards the bank of curtains. Gripping the bulky material, she inhaled a deep, inaudible breath then peered around the fabric.

Clouds shifted from the sliver of moon that hung high above. Though the landscape remained cloaked in silhouette, the moon illuminated enough light for her to note the terrain: tall pines and rolling hills dotting the distant horizon, the grounds below reassuring her that she was indeed on the second floor.

Screech.

Flinching, Sybil turned and came face to face with the intruder. A spindly branch, knotted and sharp, scraping against the window.

It resembled an emaciated finger pointing at her, accusing her, threatening her.

She flung the curtains shut, clamping her hands around the bulky material for dear life. Her chest began to rise and fall in quick, shallow breaths as the howl of wind gusting beyond the panes of glass sent her heart racing.

Is this what she experienced before her memory loss?

No, deep within the recesses of her brain, Sybil suspected that this was nothing like the sheer terror she must have experienced prior to her memories being eradicated.

The fire, though dying, crackled and hissed in the hearth. How could she sleep when every sound sent shivers of terror up her spine? Add to that the fact that she knew not who to trust and possessed more questions than answers, and sleep became the one thing she was incapable of.

Limping towards the bed, she shoved her arms into the sleeves of the dressing robe Mr. Ambrose’s maid had bequeathed her. Clutching it tight against her chest, Sybil couldn’t calm her erratic pulse.

With a sudden clarity, a blank page came to mind. That is what she was. Her recollections having vanished, she was quite simply a book with no ink, a story yet to be told.

There must be someone to narrate her tale?

Someone such as her host. After all, Mr. Ambrose knew of her past, did he not? Yes, he knew much more than he was willing to admit.

Sybil noted her suspicions and her shoulders relaxed.

Add one word to her invisible book.

Instinct.

Sybil now knew that she retained a keen intuition. One she would heed. Pain or not, she would search this house and uncover all she could about its owner before sunrise.

Wasn’t it time she learned more about her host?

Grabbing a lamp from the table beside her, she yanked the door open as a solid mass fell at her feet with a raspy moan.

“What in bloody hell?” The rough baritone laced with fatigue, was one she recognized.

“Mr. Ambrose?” Sybil stood gaping at him.

What was he doing outside her door?

“You’ve held me at the point of a jagged shard of crystal,” her host wiped the sleep from his eyes. “And a rather expensive one, at that. I believe we are on a first name basis, proprieties be damned.”