Logan understood this better than most.
It is why he crafted a life of seclusion for himself by purchasing the all-encompassing Winterthorne estate in the rolling hills of Northamptonshire. One could get lost upon its vast lands, within the gothic exterior accentuated with overgrown trees and vines, a dark interior and countless centuries old carvings of predatory canines.
Winterthorne and its wolf statues were infamous, the legends of this land and its inhabitants recounted over the spans by distant villagers.
Rumor has it that wolves roam Winterthorne’s hundreds of acres. Several witnesses throughout the years confirmed these suspicions, as did numerous animal attacks. The canines were known for protecting the inhabitants of Winterthorne against unknown visitors and hostile intruders. The reports increased, spreading like a plague through the outlying villages until no one dared to call upon the owners.
Having come face to face with one of the creatures himself, Logan could attest that wolves did indeed roam the grounds. At the time, the beast locked eyes with Logan and snarled. Subsequently the wolf stared, as if assessing the human standing before him.
Was he sizing up the man’s worth?
Did this wolf decide who belonged on the estate, who was worthy of being master of this domain?
After an inexhaustible amount of time, the gray wolf disappeared into the forest. Perhaps Logan had indeed passed the beast’s test. Perhaps the creature saw a kindred spirit in Logan.
Winterthorne afforded Logan the solitude he so desperately sought. It was his penance for the unspeakable acts he had committed while, at the same time, Winterthorne was also his private paradise. The menacing structure and imposing grounds protected him from unwanted visitors, questions that such callers would voice, and memories of his past – the same past he longed to forget though fate made ignoring his sins impossible.
Logan relived them each time he studied his reflection in the mirror, his sins etched in a broad slash across his cheek, making his appearance even more threatening.
Perhaps he and the lone wolf had several things in common. Both could send shivers up a man’s spine with one intentional glare, both craved solitude, and both wished to vanish for, make no mistake, disappearing had been Logan’s intention when he purchased Winterthorne.
His attempts were successful.
Until this night.
Tonight, upon the grounds where he thought he would encounter no one but wolves and the sounds of an occasional owl or raven, here where he felt the most isolated and protected, he had come face to face with the last person he ever thought he would see again.
No.
One of the last people.
For the woman who swooned in his arms was either Arabella Sutton or her twin sister, Sybil. Logan knew both women years ago. Though he dared to love the former once upon a time, he now despised them both equally.
At least he thought he did.
After seeing the familiar visage he once adored to distraction, he now felt unbalanced and uncertain. Because Arabella had been a part of his life since childhood, because Bella had been the most important person in his life for ages …
Until she no longer wanted to be.
His skin prickled, his anxiety mounting as he counted the seconds on his pocket watch, tapping his fingernail against the cool metal. Adjusting his weight on the hardwood floor of the hallway, he leaned against the wall that currently protected his guest. The physician was with her, as was one of his maids. The patient remained unconscious as of the doctor’s latest update.
Who is she?
Perhaps, even more importantly, who did Logan want her to be?
Both women had broken his heart, but only one held a powerful pull over him that lasted long after their final encounter. Arabella’s rejection sealed his fate, sending him down a path saturated with crimson blood and a sweltering desert. True, it was his choice but, at the time, he didn’t concede more than one option. The woman he loved had declared he would never be good enough for her. What else was there to do but fight?
Yes, he was a fighter, a survivor.
He had forsaken sentimentality long ago.
So why did he suddenly question his ability to see Arabella again without stirring those emotions within him? The feelings that decried his worth. The same feelings that made him question his ability to be loved. To love in return. To trust in one woman and never have that confidence betrayed.
Arabella’s rejection years ago set in motion a course of events that shook Logan to his core. Her callous rebuff changed his life. Hell, it redefined his life.
He allowed it to do so.
Because he allowed her into his heart and she had shattered it into sharp shards with hurtful words, with a callous indifference.
Her sister, Sybil, had once told him that he wasn’t good enough for Arabella, as well, though her statement failed to wound him. Even though he knew it to be true, it mattered not because Bella believed in him.
Until she ceased doing so.
Until she uttered those dreadful words …
Logan released a jagged sigh, snapping his pocket watch closed before thrusting it into his trouser pocket.
Damn these memories.
Arabella, Sybil – does it really matter precisely which Miss Sutton lay in the next room?
One sister was a whore by trade.
The other was a whore by choice.
Arabella had chosen to debase herself, had she not?
Her indiscretion had been the talk of London. Of course, he had heard of the tryst. Who in London had not? The man had been her employer, she his children’s governess. Their transgression was the scandal of the season.
Then there was her sister. No one could avoid Sybil’s exploits because her life was on full display. Every rumor, innuendo and hint of scandal played as if it were a role that Sybil coveted. She very well might have, for Sybil loved playing roles. She performed the one of a trollop with aplomb.
While Bella was disgraced, her sister relished the attention and the money she received from her wicked ways.
Both sisters had been the gossip of London, at different times, for different reasons. Their reputations were damaged beyond repair. So, did it matter who the woman lying unconscious in the next room was?
Logan reached into his pocket, clutching the cool metal of his watch against his palm. Though he normally placed it inside his vest pocket, close to his heart, he wore no vest tonight. Still, the watch was sentimental, an heirloom he never parted with. He squeezed it, as if it would infuse him with the answers he sought.
Arabella or Sybil … did it matter who the woman in distress was?
It did, Logan realized as he swallowed hard against the sour taste in the back of his mouth.
It matters …
Because, despite his avowals to the contrary, he would always care for Arabella. No matter how he wanted to despise her, no matter what shame befell her, no matter how tarnished her reputation, no matter how much he believed that his emotions were guarded from her.
The truth remained quite simple: from the moment Logan saw that once beloved face on the grounds of his estate, his heart began to thaw for Arabella. He could feel the chinks in his armor and while he refused to categorize it as affection or even compassion, he was willing to classify it as concern.
Quite the quandary.
Either Logan would offer protection to a woman who had recoiled from his affection only to immerse herself in scandal or he would shelter her viper of an identical twin sister possessing the same face, the same voice, but with a blackened soul.
Could Logan stomach sheltering Sybil all the while enduring her haughty demeanor, her malicious tone and condescension? Perhaps no more than he could abide seeing Arabella again, with the full knowledge that she had shed her innocence and respectability with nothing more than a passing glance, as if disrobing herself of the latest fashion.
Well, she had disrobed … that much was true.
A creak cause
d Logan to jump to his feet, meeting the doctor’s concerned gaze at once.
“She hasn’t awakened, I’m afraid,” the man announced in a hushed whisper, exiting the room. “I have diagnosed an ankle sprain, some cuts and bruises. Those have been treated. I have also diagnosed a head injury and that is of concern to me, though we won’t know the extent until she awakens. I should be present whenever that occurs.”
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?
“Sybil,” 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.
The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4 Page 2
