“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.
Broad shoulders, tall frame, muscular build. His was a striking presence, untamed and menacing at first glance. His luminous hair, long and dark, shimmered with the bluish hue of a raven’s coat.
Even the opaque scar on his right cheek seemed to shine in the dim light. His eyes, however … his eyes were anything but warm. They were what she first noticed about him. Staring into their onyx depths made her feel as if she was staring into a starless sky. Vast, all encompassing … one could get lost in those eyes.
Tall, at least six foot four, with broad shoulders and a muscular build, he gave her the impression of a man not of noble lineage.
Could that be why he addressed her in such an informal manner?
Her eyes roved the surroundings. They were decadent to be certain. Tapestries, rugs, and furnishings in rich hues of mahogany, burgundy and gold. The room appeared quite large for a guest room. She imagined the estate must be impressive.
My estate.
Logan – Mr. Logan was quite clear in describing this as his estate. So, he must possess some degree of wealth.
“Do you know me?” her throat was rough, her words barely audible above the hissing and crackling of the fire within the hearth. Since she could barely hear her own voice, Sybil attempted her question once more. After clearing her throat, her question was louder, her cadence stronger. “Do you know me, Mr. Logan?”
His hands stilled in the process of pouring something from a silver jug into a glass. It was a brief pause, which he quickly recovered from. In fact, his response was so swift that Sybil wondered if her foggy senses were leading her to misunderstand, to misinterpret his actions.
A rap at the door caused her to scurry backwards, slamming her back against the wood-paneled wall. Though she couldn’t see who knocked from where she was seated, the man who spoke from the doorway did not sound familiar. Sybil sat stock still as Logan issued orders to fetch the doctor before the door closed with an audible click.
Hidden between a wardrobe and the corner of the room, she peered around the large, mahogany furniture in time to catch her host crossing the room in swift, panther-like strides. Again, he knelt before Sybil, offering her the glass of clear liquid.
Though her throat felt parched, her hand froze whilst in the process of accepting. “Why won’t you answer my question?”
“Why would you ask such a question, love?” he tipped his head to the side. “Do I appear familiar?”
Needles of apprehension crept up her spine. “No, but you failed to reveal your full name, you are dressed informally, and you just addressed me as love.”
“Ah, that,” he took her hand, placing the glass of clear liquid between her palm and fingers. “You must forgive my lack of etiquette. I wasn’t expecting visitors, which explains my clothing, and I tend to speak informally. Words like mate and love are part of my vernacular. If it was a noble you sought tonight, I fear that you fell into the wrong man’s arms.”
He arched his brow, as if in challenge then stared at her. Gauging Sybil’s reaction to his confessions, perhaps?
In a deliberate attempt to show no signs of weakness, she accepted the glass and took a sip. The cool water eased her throat, therefore she took several hefty gulps.
Logan coughed behind his hand.
“What?” Sybil stiffened, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
His gaze – there was something about his gaze. Those dark eyes, almost onyx, staring straight into her vacant soul.
While she failed to weave past the cobwebs entangling her remembrances, Sybil was bombarded with the strong sensation that this Logan knew more about her than he would like to admit.
Disheveled and dressed in nothing but a shift, Sybil refused to cower. Instead, she straightened her shoulders, taking on her most proud posture.
“Dare I ask what you find amusing about my present situation?”
“Your situation is dire, love. There is no denying that. It is just—” he scratched his chin, rough with stubble. “Well, you noted how informal I am yet you just consumed that entire glass in several gulps. Most unladylike, indeed.”
Stressing his last word, her host allowed it to linger.
To what did he refer?
And why did Sybil’s heart skip a beat when his hand brushed against hers as he recovered the glass?
A faint knock caused her to jump. The fact that Mr. Logan patted her knee as a show of support further unnerved her.
This man was full of contradictions. Intimidating yet gentle. Cold yet compassionate. How could he possess all of these qualities in such a short duration? After all, he had known her for what? Less than half an hour?
Her mind reeled at a dizzying rate.
None of this man’s behavior made sense and she was certain her hazy memory was not the cause of her present unease.
“I understand that our patient is conscious,” a gentle tenor echoed through the room, a short and stout man following in its wake until he stood behind Mr. Logan. “Oh, my. She should be in bed, Mr. Ambrose.”
Ambrose?
Logan was his first name?
Sybil’s breathing accelerated. What was she missing? Her instinct insisted that she was indeed overlooking a crucial piece of this puzzle.
Locking eyes with Mr. Ambrose’s smoky glare, she noted a savage vulnerability beyond the surface. A glimmer of … could it be fear? Again, this man was a series of contradictions. Though she knew not why, Sybil refused to release his gaze.
It became a battle of wills, for she was certain that her host was doing his best to intimidate her. Staring this formidable man down was no easy feat, but her host blinked first.
Mr. Ambrose turned away from her, shaking his head as he stood before proceeding to the table in front of a large bank of curtains, upon which the physician had placed his bag.
Leaning against the table, placing his palms against the smooth surface, he stared at his hands for several long moments.
All the while, Logan willed his hands to stop trembling, willed his pulse to slow.
Why did Sybil’s stare unnerve him so?
Could it be because when she looked at him with such wide-eyed innocence, he could not help but think of her sister? Of when he had first known Arabella. Of when he fell in love with her.
The physician offered Sybil a hand, guiding her gently to her feet.
Logan supposed he should have done so. But he hadn’t. And not because he was deliberately tormenting his guest.
No, far from it.
He studied her with a cool reserve, seeking a sign that Sybil was the same manipulative woman he once
knew. Instead, it was as if she were a blank canvas. On second thought, upon further observation, he noted that she was shrouded in fear, self-doubt, in … dare he say it, naïveté?
For the first time in his life, Logan felt sorry for Sybil Sutton. In spite of all she had done. In spite of who she had become.
Because she was now a lost soul.
There wasn’t a man alive who understood lost souls better than Logan. Hell, he had been one for most of his life. He could still categorize himself as such, if he peered deep enough into the crevices of the fortress that now guarded his hardened heart.
Like him, Sybil pretended to be tough. Staring him down, but he had seen the twitch of her eyelid. One miniscule response, one that Sybil was likely unaware of.
It foretold that her unrelenting stare was an act.
To prove that she wasn’t afraid of him.
Why then, despite the fact that he saw through her strong, unrelenting façade, did Logan crumble under her intense scrutiny?
Was it possible that after all these years, all his battle wounds, and his steely resolve to become a menacing and dangerous man capable of outwitting the most ruthless and cunning, he remained that lovesick boy who Sybil could taunt and attack?
If so, this woman brought out the worst in him.
Logan must take care for he refused to let her best him again. He would not allow her to see any form of weakness, knowing how Sybil loved to exploit one’s flaws.
Once the patient was settled under the covers, Logan handed her the glass of water he had refilled. “Sybil, this is Dr. Forsythe. He attended to you earlier and has remained in residence while you slept.”
“Why can’t I remember anything?” she demanded, clutching the bedding in a tight fist with her free hand as she glanced from the physician to Logan. “How do you know my name? How do you know me? Why am I in such a luxurious room?”
Her panic was palpable, rising as her hand shook, water spilling over the top of her glass.
Logan tipped her wrist with his palm, stabilizing the liquid that had been sloshing about as he pondered her question.
Why did Logan instruct his servants to bring Sybil to his most opulent of guest rooms?
To impress Bella, perhaps? To impress Sybil? Or did the twin not matter as long as he was able to show one of them that he had amassed wealth, something neither had thought him capable of.
His fortune came at a steep price. Rising from poverty always does. At least that was Logan’s excuse when he chose his route, the path most men dared not venture. It made his actions more justifiable despite the fact that his transition had been effortless.
Too much so.
He joined the British East India Company to evade his past, to buttress his broken heart, to heal from the deep wounds Arabella inflicted when she discarded his love with a callous indifference and brutal finality. Logan immersed himself in the rush of danger and the thrill of victory. Somewhere along the way, he ceased considering the consequences.
Until he could no longer outrun his conscience.
The stakes had changed by that point in time – the war had changed. Lines blurred. The people he could trust dwindled to a select few and his eyes witnessed with a dismal clarity the depravity and brutality on both sides, even against one’s own people.
Then the terror of war became tangible.
When he reached the end of his journey, Logan was alone with nothing but the passing of time as his companion.
For some, time is a blessing.
For him, it was a curse.
Logan Ambrose, the one to lecture a friend that he should feel no guilt because it was a time of war and no one knew who to trust, had suddenly been thrust into the bowels of an awakened conscience.
His acts, whether justified or not, haunted him.
Memories of what he did and what he saw hounded him. Once he faced one phantom, another followed in its wake, proceeded by yet another. Each reminded him of his sins. Though they needn’t bother, for he was branded by them. His body marred by scars of war, each mark that slashed his flesh was his own constant reminder of hell.
His hell.
Yes, Logan Ambrose bore his sins. Each physical mark representing his guilt, his shame, his curse, his burden. Hence the fortification of his iron fortress, sheathing his heart from having to confront the full extent of his actions, the human toll.
By hiding in Winterthorne, he could wallow in his despair.
He could repent.
Is that why he felt pity for Sybil? Because at last he understood the weight of actions and consequences. The weight of losing yourself. One wrong move, one step in a different direction, and your fate changes.
As the doctor explained her memory loss, the fact that it should return in time, Logan contemplated whether Sybil had any regrets before her memory lapse, before she ran straight into his arms and begged him for help. Better yet, would Sybil have asked for his aid had she known who he was?
Probably.
The woman he once knew would be attracted to his affluence. Of course, people are capable of change, but Sybil Sutton’s reputation left little to the imagination.
Still, she was a victim of something.
Logan studied the discoloration now growing darker on her neck. Strangulation, he assumed. The doctor failed to disclose to his patient the full extent of her injuries.
Dr. Forsythe knew it.
As did Logan.
Apparently, so did Sybil.
She clutched the bedding tighter. “What aren’t you telling me? Why am I here?” Her eyes darted from Dr. Forsythe to Logan, as if beseeching the latter for a flicker of clarity, some explanation of their familiarity.
The only physician within a ten mile radius didn’t seem to notice his patient’s despair. “You must not strain—”
“I am not a child. You are keeping something from me,” she again turned to Logan. “What is it?”
Blame it on her likeness to her sister, the girl he once loved, or his ability to understand living through a nightmare. Whatever the cause, he sat beside Sybil, placing his hand on hers.
“We knew each other years ago.”
Tension released in her joints, he could feel it evaporating from her hand, her knuckles, as her grip loosened. The more he spoke, the more calm she became. “We haven’t seen each other in quite some time. Not until I found you fleeing from the woods on the outskirts of my estate. You asked for my help. That is what I will provide. You are safe here.”
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?”
The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4 Page 3
