The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4 (3 page)

Struggling to open her eyes, her head bobbed to the rhythm of his quick strides. It wasn’t until her head swung backwards that she managed to peer through narrow slits.

It was dark, the sky thick with murky clouds. There were too many clouds tonight. Too much darkness.

She wished there were stars.

She liked the constellations.

She missed the comfort they provided.

The man whistled and the patter of paws approached from behind. The dog was panting, though the man who carried her proceeded to wherever he was headed with no labored breathing. In fact, it was as if she were nothing more than a flimsy piece of fabric in his hands.

This man was physically fit. At least she knew something about him. He was also calm under duress. Now she had unlocked a second clue to her savior’s personality.

Though he showed no signs of physical exertion, his timbre was strong, composed. “Adolphus, fetch someone from the house. Run, boy. Bark and get their attention. Go!” His instructions were issued in a quick staccato.

This man was familiar with issuing commands.

Something in the recesses of her mind suggested she must keep track of these clues and wished she had paper and ink. Though it was an urgent thought, it soon became overpowered by her racing heart and the searing pain slicing through her temple.

Dear God, her head hurt.

Eyes drifting shut again, she was ensconced in a bleak reality. What if her attackers were following her? She opened her mouth to warn her companion but coughed, choking on her blood.

“Steady,” he assured her, holding her closer against his chest. “We’re almost home.”

Home?

Again, she managed to open her eyes, though only slightly. Squinting to right her blurry vision, she managed to discern the menacing outline of a massive estate.

The closer they approached, the more sinister it appeared. Eyes watched from the rafters. Whose? She struggled to adjust her vision.

Wolves.

Yes, wolves were perched on the pediments, carved in the stone of the parapets. Their eyes glowed white, even in the dead of night.

Their gaze bore into her soul, following her.

Ever watchful.

Ever menacing.

Could this truly be her safe haven?

The profile of a raven perched atop a spindly tree limb grabbed her attention. It cawed, its warning quite clear.

Beware
.

The sleek bird with its foreboding message added to the commanding illusion of the house. Large, made with dark stone, illuminated in a ghostly hue cast by ominous clouds.

Where was she?

What was this imposing place?

She was reminded of an Edgar Allan Poe poem – how could she remember the macabre works of a poet and nothing about herself? Still, remember she did.

This world she had entered was filled with the watchful stare of wolves, ravens, and a scarred man whose appearance was perhaps even more daunting than the structure in which he resided.

A fine mist began to fall from the overcast skies as her stomach churned, a knot of apprehension coiling in her abdomen. She feared that she had unwittingly stepped into more danger than before.

Before drifting into unconsciousness, she managed a silent prayer.

Dear God, protect me…

T
he seconds ticked by as Logan Ambrose studied his pewter pocket watch.

One instant passed.

Then another.

Followed by a third.

Odd, is it not, how moments accumulate? How one’s life changes on a whim. How quickly the course of one’s life can veer off track. How a person can become unrecognizable to himself, to others, at a rapid rate.

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
caused 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.”