The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4 (12 page)

Her laugh caused him to lean against the arm of the sofa, the cushions swaying under his weight as he sat next to her, concentrating on the sound … it was dramatically different than he remembered.

There was no hint of malice, no underlying recrimination. Instead, her laugh was lyrical, like bells tinkling in a soft summer breeze.

Perhaps she had changed, he wondered, as Logan’s eyes surveyed the book that presently held her attention. It was one he was well acquainted with, a hymnal from the late seventeenth century. The spine read “CHURCH SERVICES HYMNS” in a muted gold paint. One had to strain their eyes, otherwise the writing was illegible, but he had scrutinized it.

Day after day.

It was one of the few books Logan had examined yet never opened, religion being one of the few topics he was reluctant to read about, given his past misdeeds.

Sybil pressed the tarnished brass latch on the side, delicately prying the cover open. The book expelled a series of cracks as its worn spine was put to use while a musty scent lingered, from the decaying pages of the hymnal, now yellowed with age.

Upon turning several pages with great care, a folded sheet of paper drifted to the ground. It had been hidden within the hymnal. Landing on the rug, next to Sybil’s gold skirts, the missive’s round seal of melted crimson wax etched with a coat of arms lay face up. The paper surrounding the seal was torn, proof that the seal had already been broken.

Logan placed his tumbler upon the table before reaching for the note, its fine paper discolored by age.

Closing the hymnal, Sybil took a sip of her whiskey. “What does it say? Is it a sermon? A prayer?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” He handed her the paper, accepting her glass in return then watched as Sybil unfolded the timeworn paper as if it were a precious prize.

“Oh, my,” Sybil’s jaw dropped. “This is most certainly not a sermon. Pray, place that glass on the table as this letter is so shocking you may spill the contents if not careful.”

She tucked her legs under her knees as Logan did as bid, her eyes widening as he rested against the back of the comfortable sofa. So enamored was she with the missive that Sybil didn’t appear to notice that she was leaning into him.

Now, within such close proximity to her, he could feel her warmth radiating from her skin, inhale the intoxicating scent of vanilla mingled with lavender.

Was it from her hair or her flesh?

The mere query caused his senses to heighten. The possibilities sending a jolt, like that of lightning, through his body.

“I will need more of your delicious liquor if I am to read this aloud,” she leaned forward, allowing Logan a glimpse of the milky flesh above her bodice.

What an ample bosom she was endowed with.

The knowledge caused his pulse to quicken, sending a rush of heat through his limbs. This sensation overwhelmed him, causing him to shake his head, as if he could just as easily free himself from her scent, her pull, her luminous presence.

Upon refilling both their tumblers, Logan handed Sybil her glass, then traced the etchings in his own as his heart raced from her close proximity and heady scent. Downing the contents of his glass in several large gulps, his intention was to quench his mounting desire for the last woman he should feel anything but loathing for.

Still, just like last night, she left him off-kilter. Down was up whenever he was with her, wrong was right. And she reminded him so much of Bella …

Why did he keep thinking of Arabella?

Why did hope continue to take root within his heart, hope that this was his Bella beside him?

Studying Sybil as she gulped the contents of her own glass, he noted with raised brows how well she was holding tonight’s whiskey. How much mulled wine had she consumed the night prior?

Sybil placed her empty tumbler on the mahogany table before settling closer to him. She cared not for propriety. That much was evident.

“Listen to this,” she announced, her scent intoxicating him much more than whiskey ever could.

Her eyes danced as she read aloud.

My darling, I have thought of nothing but you since our last encounter. Your spellbinding presence and the pull you maintain over me has me at a loss. You are my every thought, my very breath. You are in my dreams. Pray tell me my love is not unrequited. That you are and will be forever mine. I shall await your reply. Every minute, every hour, every moment shall be sheer torment. Pray, do not take long to respond. I long for your touch, for your caress, for your hand, which causes my own to tremble, for your lips, which make my body ache for you. Pray, make me whole, for my heart belongs to you. Now. Always. It is you and only you.

Maximillian Winterton, 1698

She exhaled, the sweet scent of mint intermingling with whiskey fanning against Logan’s cheek. Her nearness had narrowed since she had begun reading. Sybil now leaned against his shoulder, the yellowed paper with neat folds still in her hand.

Their gazes locked. Hers eyes, glowing like warm sunshine on a flawless day, were bright and brimming with …

Passion.

It was unmistakable.

Her breathing had quickened, her bosom gently rising and falling in swift, shallow breaths.

Logan parted his lips as she filled his senses. She was so close he could touch her. Why not? Sybil was leaning against him. She hadn’t pulled away.

Tucking a stray tendril behind her ear, his fingertips lingered as they slid down her neck, her flesh softer than he could have imagined.

Sybil’s breath hitched in her throat as she studied the man before her.

Gazing into the depths of Logan’s dark obsidian eyes, which warmed from the sconces that surrounded them, she noted tawny flecks, like tiny sparks. It was the first time she noted the difference in Logan’s eyes. Until this moment, they remained dark, devoid of any colors but that of a black abyss.

Why the difference now
? Sybil wondered.

She leaned forward and the embers intensified, as did the desire emanating from his gaze. This man, his powerful presence, was even more impressive when his eyes radiated with such an intensity of warmth and yearning. That is why she dared not move … for fear that the spell cast between them would be shattered.

Why his touch caused her to tremble, she knew not. Nor did she understand the pull he held over her. As in that passionate, romantic missive, her own body trembled from Logan’s touch while her soul ached for him.

What caused such sensations to awaken within her? Why had this man struck such a vibrant, increasingly prominent chord within her? Had she imbibed too much of her host’s liquor?

No, she was sober tonight.

Of that, Sybil was certain.

Still, she could not – no, would not – pull away, for it was a choice. One that she was quick to acknowledge.

Instead, Sybil leaned into his warm palm, which he splayed across her cheek, underneath the cut that had already begun to heal. Gently, idly, he caressed the flesh beneath her wound with his thumb.

She wondered if her cheek would scar like Logan’s. Somehow, she suspected both possessed scars. Whether physical or emotional, they both suppressed traumas within the dark recesses of their souls. How she knew this, remained a mystery. But it was one regarding which she hadn’t a single doubt.

His thumb traced a path to her lips, which parted in response as her hands traveled up his arm, past the soft fabric of his jacket and up to the nape of his neck. When her fingers threaded his hair, her pulse quickened in immediate response.

Why had she done that?

What had caused her to become so brazen?

Her hand quavered and she paused, studying Logan’s reaction.

Inhaling deeply, his hooded gaze locked with hers. His eyes were now the deep onyx of a moonless night and they were currently studying her with a glint of surprise and a depth of emotion she was certain she had never before witnessed.

Of course, she had no memory of such a look, such a compelling force, as when Logan Ambrose studied you but, certainly, she would remember this?

The enigmatic intensity of his stare was one that all but lay your soul bare.

Though her soul was devoid of any recollection of who she was, Sybil still wondered what he would uncover.

A surge of excitement rippled through her. Like the gravitational pull of the moon, pulling the tide higher, his influence upon her was hypnotic, his touch kindling a fire within her.

Logan trailed his fingers down her neck, only to retrace the same path upwards, causing her flesh to tremble under his dexterous touch. He then crushed his lips against hers.

Though she knew it to be improper, she cared not, choosing instead to meld her body against his while a desperate yearning flooded her heart.

Had she been kissed like this before?

Did she know how to reciprocate?

She must, for Sybil parted her lips and the sensation of his tongue brushing against hers sent a jolt through to her core. It awakened parts of her body she knew not existed and caused them to radiate with a fiery warmth.

Yes, this man ignited something palpable within her. A flame, licking at her core, causing her body to respond in waves of heat and rushes of desire.

Sybil rode her impulses, using her tongue as he had done, exploring his mouth. He moaned in immediate response, tugging her against his chest as his own tongue probed deeper, as his hands trailed lower until they cupped her skirts. That was when he lifted her onto his lap.

It was her turn to moan and she did, the reaction causing him to clutch her tighter in his warm embrace as Sybil threaded her fingers through his long, ragged mane.

Yearning to touch him, explore him, Sybil’s hands traveled down his neck, over his shoulders to his vest. She flattened her palm beneath his crimson cravat where it rested against his shirt, against his heart, and could feel the steady
tha-thump
beneath her hand.

His strength, his passion, his very being emanated from that sturdy heartbeat. It summoned her, caused her to lean into him, rest her bosom against his chest.

Heart to heart, the bond between them was tangible. A current of unbridled desire drew her to him. Like a storm intensifying, rolling across the moors, raging with the full might of Mother Nature herself, the lure between them was one she dared not fight.

Logan tugged the pins from her hair, causing it to fall freely over her shoulders as he caressed the nape of her neck.

His every touch drew her nearer still.

Desperate to eradicate all distance between them, she leaned closer to him, now straddling him, as she brushed her tongue against his.

Logan’s hands trailed down her neck, to the fabric at her shoulders then traced a path to the flesh above her bodice, hooking his finger under the fabric.

This man was intoxicating. His passionate kisses, his solid embrace, his lingering scent of pine and musk, caused her core to ignite in a pulsating sensation.

Had she ever before felt such an insatiable thirst? If so, how could she possibly forget such an intense craving?

Her memory or lack thereof sobered her.

With a sudden jolt of lucidity, Sybil groaned, mustering all the strength she possessed to wrench herself away from him, from Logan’s delicious lips flavored of whiskey and his dexterous tongue.

She placed her forehead against his, allowing herself several moments to catch her breath before asking, “Am I married?” Well aware that only Logan knew the answers which she so desperately sought.

His body tensed, she could feel his tendons tighten beneath her weight.

He did not wish to discuss her past.

That much was evident.

Meeting her eyes, his hooded passion was now replaced by a cool reserve. “No, you are not.”

“Who am I?” he attempted to lift her off his lap, but she straddled him tighter, her hands clenching his shoulders. “Before we go any further, I must know who I am.”

“Are you certain that you want to know the truth, love?” his tone was hard, much like his body beneath her.

A dizziness washed over her.

Dear God, who was she?

What was she?

Logan seemed to sense her apprehension and offered her a slight grin. “It isn’t pretty, love. With the past comes much guilt and self-recrimination, especially in your present state. Are you certain you wish to venture forth with this conversation?”

Sybil nodded, unable to find her voice past the large lump that had formed in her throat.

Lifting her off his lap, Logan placed her upon the sofa while he settled on the table before them, lifting his empty glass from the rug. She didn’t recall him dropping it. All she remembered was her voracious hunger for him and the raging inferno he incited deep within her feminine core.

Refilling their empty glasses, Logan offered one to Sybil and remained seated, his broad frame making the table seem small, insignificant, in comparison to his muscular build and raw magnetism.

Kneeling on the sofa, her gaze met his. Eye to eye, his passion had been replaced by a detachment, as if doused by an icy rain.