The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4

by Tracy Goodwin

  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.

  Screech.

  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?” Sy
bil 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.”

  He swore. The knowledge caused her heart to leap with … what was this feeling?

  Surprise?

  But why?

  Mr. Ambrose had cursed before, however the absurdity of her situation failed to present itself until this precise moment. How could she recall what was considered to be proper in polite society but couldn’t remember her own surname?

  A hearty chuckle slipped from her throat. Though she placed her free hand over her mouth to stifle it, the chuckle soon became a full-fledged laugh.

  Sinking to the floor, Sybil continued to laugh out loud while a look of utter confusion swept across her host’s face.

  “I believe you may be slightly mad,” he leaned against his elbow. “That doctor isn’t worth a fraction of what I paid him, for he bungled your diagnosis entirely.”

  Sybil’s shoulders shook harder as her fit of laughter intensified.

  “I believe you are correct,” she hiccupped, causing her laughter to become more boisterous. “Who in their right mi-mind remembers social customs and no-not her own surname?”

  Logan narrowed his eyes, as if attempting to decipher her meaning.

  “You are lying at my door—” another hiccup, “in nothing but a shirt and breeches. I am in a robe. You are swearing and—” yet another hiccup, “I’m, well … I don’t know what I am doing but I am quite certain it is improper.” She placed the lamp on the floor beside them, as she hiccupped once more.

  “I read once that propriety is far overrated,” his baritone was teasing. “Also, I am over the threshold so, for history’s sake, it must be noted that I am in your bedchamber. Though it does rightfully belong to me.”

  “I stand corrected,” Sybil bowed her head in acquiescence then studied the disheveled man beside her. His onyx mane was much longer than she had noted before, perchance because it now appeared unkempt from a restless sleep.

  He rose to a sitting position, craning his neck back and forth, as the sound of cracking joints joined the chorus of the dying embers of the fire in the grate.

  He must have been lying at her door a long time. Perhaps since she attempted to stab him with his own crystal tumbler.

  Guilt settled in the pit of her stomach. Was the man whose throat she almost slit protecting her by remaining outside her bedchamber?

  Why would Logan Ambrose do such a thing?

  Logan Ambrose …

  Try as she might, the name meant nothing to her, rattled no recollections. “How do you know me?”

  Logan stifled a yawn behind his hand, answering in a nonchalant tone. “We were acquainted many years ago.”

  Though he took great pains to appear unaffected, his clenched jaw and furrowed brows warned her not to press the issue. Yet Sybil was much too desperate for the truth to heed her own warnings.

  “How were we acquainted? You are the only person I have to ask, and I know nothing about myself. Why won’t you answer me?”

  “Because you once told me I wasn’t good enough to shine your shoes, let alone sit on your back stoop,” he snapped, his baritone menacing while a vein began to pulsate within his neck. Even in contour, the frantic rhythm was jarring.

  His glare, dark and dangerous, caused Sybil’s breath to catch in her throat.

  This man despises me.

  Despite his previous attempts to hide his indifference, Logan no longer seemed to care. His full lips had flattened into a firm line, his jaw clenched tight.

  Had she truly uttered those words to him?

  “My apologies,” it was her first reaction, her only reaction.

  Logan held up his finger, pointing. “Do not apologize when you have no idea what you did nor the extent of your malice.”

  He jumped to his feet, striding out the door.

  He couldn’t seem to flee fast enough.

  Why had she offended this man? What would cause her to behave in such a way? And why was he willing to protect her knowing what she had done and clearly harboring such hostility?

  “Sutton,” one word, muttered in the hallway.

  Sybil turned towards him. “I beg your pardon?”

  Standing with his palm against the doorframe, Logan stared at the floor. “Your last name is Sutton.”

  Sybil Sutton.

  It sounded familiar, yet she failed to feel any real connection to her name. Had she expected an epiphany? Had she expected that her memories would return in a sudden bolt of clarity if she learned of her surname? Such a thing would be preposterous.

  Still, she repeated it in the hopes that her full name would jar something within her, that it would yank her from the haze of uncertainty. “My name is Sybil Sutton.”

  One piece of the puzzle that was her life fell into place though she failed to savor her victory. As Sybil studied Logan, realization set in. “What else did I do to you?”

  He squeezed the doorframe, refusing to meet her intense stare. “Your last name is all you get tonight. Now go back to sleep and don’t even think about prowling these bloody halls on that ankle.”

  Sybil opened her mouth in protest but Logan silenced her with a raised palm.

  “I have hounds,” he hissed. “And they don’t like strangers, so remain in your room until morning.”

  With that last command, he slammed the door. He didn’t quite slam it, though. To be honest, he did give her time to move out of its path.

  Why did he continue to protect the same woman he so despised?

  Slumping against the wall, Sybil studied the flames in the hearth. Like a thick fog, darkness enveloped the last of the embers. More murky shapes joined her, filling the room with what she feared were wraiths, specters of her past. Lurking, taunting her, but never coming into the light.

  What if this confusion was permanent?

  The doctor said she may never remember her life in its entirety. The thought jarred her, causing her to place her hands over her chest. Would she forever be haunted by unknown recollections?

  Her lamp, still lit, remained on the floor beside her and Sybil scrutinized the indistinct forms cast upon the walls. Like her past, they were muted, muddled, and appeared distant.

  “Instincts,” she whispered, as again the scratching of that limb against the window pane caused her to shudder.

  It was as if her past was clawing at the glass, haunting her, hunting her, lacerating her hope of finding peace.

  For the first time since learning she had no memory, Sybil now wondered if she truly wanted to remember. Would she like herself once she learned the truth? The tremor of her hand at the very thought was all Sybil needed to know.

  She clamped her hands together as panic seized her again. This time, Sybil’s heart skipped a beat at the possibility that she might not like the person she discovered.

  Exhausted, though unable to sleep, she contemplated her options: remain in this bedchamber with the branch that sent every nerve on end or take a walk.

  Though the thought of being chased by mad hounds was unpleasant to say the least, Sybil was desperate to flee from this bloody room. So much so, that she would risk suffering Logan Ambrose’s wrath and that of his unfriendly canines.

  What was the worst that could happen?

  The hounds could finish her off, henceforth neither Logan Ambrose nor those men who hunted her would be a danger any longer.

  Right now, based upon her taut nerves and violent headache, it sounded like a win-win situation to Sybil as she proceeded towards the door on tiptoe.

  Her limp would not stop her from finding answers. Or perhaps alcohol? With that, a plan took flight: alcohol then answers.

  Yes, that is what this night called for.

  Logan stood in his suite, in front of the mirror, studying his scar; one of many, but
the only one visible to the public. The deadened, opaque flesh spanning the right side of his face.

  This remnant of savagery, of the brutality he had taken part in was his permanent punishment, a constant reminder of what he had done and what he was still capable of.

  His condemnation, on display for all to see.

  For all to judge.

  Sybil hid behind a smooth visage and regal features, with eyes that sparkled even in the dimmest of rooms and a smile that could melt the most frozen of glaciers.

  Yet, her outer beauty masked her blackened soul.

  One could compare Sybil Sutton to a rose. Brilliant, with vivid color and silken, flawless petals. But, beneath the breathtaking bloom lay a stem with sharp thorns. Get too close and she would cause you to bleed the same crimson color of the rose itself.

  Red roses were beautiful … and dangerous.

  So was Sybil.

  That woman was neither naïve nor refined. Sybil had committed her own sins and possessed quite the reputation.

  If it weren’t for her beauty …

  Sybil’s beauty granted her immunity from her transgressions.

  Tonight, when she was laughing, it reminded him of her sister. Vibrant, witty, and so very similar to her twin.

  Arabella …

  The woman he once loved.

  The woman Logan lost because of Sybil.

  Miss Sybil Sutton had cost him dearly. Therefore, why did his heart thaw in her presence not once but twice tonight?

  Damned if he knew.

  Logan refused to discover why.

  Instead, he would ignore what transpired tonight, the innocence Sybil exuded, and concentrate on the woman he knew her to be.

  Cold, manipulative and malicious.

  Those were the qualities he must remember. And if Sybil insisted upon learning who she was, what she truly was, Logan would tell her. Doctor’s orders be damned.

  Perhaps, after all these years, what he needed most to help heal his wounded soul was to reveal to Sybil the type of woman she truly was.

  A flash of pain emanating from Sybil’s eyes when he snapped at her filled his mind. Damn it, and damn him, for even considering for one moment that Sybil might have changed, that even an ounce of compassion or humility remained in her blackened heart.