The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4 (7 page)

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.

No, she was the same ruthless woman she had always been. The difference was that Logan was no longer the same man. He was now as cold and manipulative as Sybil.

Perhaps more so.

Though not quite malicious, he was still capable of acts most would find reprehensible.

Methodically, a seed of his scheme bloomed. He possessed much ammunition against Sybil. He could easily disarm her only to cripple her with the weight of the truth when she least expected it.

Who was better suited to teach Sybil a lesson than the man she had wronged so many years ago? The man she never thought capable of possessing wealth, or an estate such as this.

What had she called him? An urchin. That was it. But Logan was much more, always had been, even before his recent evolution.

Logan Ambrose … orphan, chimney sweep, pickpocket, baker, soldier, mercenary, businessman, friend, partner. With each title came more wisdom, more strength, more power.

Yes, he would teach Sybil a valuable lesson.

But only after he ensured that her defenses were down. Logan must ensure that she trusts him first. What better way than to summon someone from his past?

Someone once just as deadly as Logan.

As he wrote the missive in his choppy handwriting, Logan knew this to be the best course.

Charm Sybil, then proceed.

Of course, there was still the matter of who attempted to kill her tonight. And whether or not her sister was safe. On this, Logan’s closest confidant would be beneficial.

By the end of the day, reinforcements would arrive. They would help commence this charade, his plan to punish the woman who once ruined his only chance at happiness.

Sybil had unknowingly made the worst possible enemy all of those years ago.

At long last, she would regret it.