The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4

by Tracy Goodwin

  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 o
f 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.

  “Very well,” he took a couple of hefty swigs of the amber liquid.

  Sybil did the same, preparing herself for the worst.

  “When I knew you, you were vicious and selfish, the complete opposite of your sister. You have since acquired a rather sordid reputation.”

  Sister?

  She clutched her crystal tumbler so tight within her grasp that she thought it might shatter. “I have a sister?”

  “Yes, you have an identical twin named Arabella.” He pursed his lips as if he swallowed something bitter. In spite of the apparent aftertaste, or perhaps because of it, he took another swig of his whiskey.

  The toll of the clock rang through the room and Sybil counted to ten. She was grateful for the interruption. It allowed her to gather her wits and process all she was learning. She has a twin. What else?

  A sordid reputation.

  To what does that remark refer?

  Numerous possibilities assailed her brain and, for the second time since stumbling upon Winterthorne, Sybil wondered if not knowing might be best.

  Once the room fell silent, with nothing but the cracks and pops emanating from the fiery embers in the hearth, she dared to ask, “Where is my sister?”

  “I’ve asked Colin to investigate that, as well as who may have attacked you.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Why have you kept up with me, but not her?”

  He poured more liquid into his glass. The fact that he sought refuge in a bottle caused Sybil to down the contents of her own glass in several large gulps.

  Allowing the thick liquid to trace a hot path down her throat, she shut her eyes, welcoming the numbness that the alcohol provided.

  “It is difficult not to be privy to your antics, Sybil,” Logan tipped her chin and her eyes searched his.

  The pity reflected back at her made her want to wretch. The same question assailed her.

  What had she done?

  Logan took her hand, squeezing it. “You have been the talk of London for many years now. You are a professional soprano, though you have spent most of your career in the chorus or in the wings. Success has eluded you, though you are famous. Or perhaps, I should say infamous, for you are known not for your voice but for your affairs with affluent men, most of whom are married.”

  A wave of nausea washed over her.

  “I am a trollop.” It was a statement.

  One which Logan failed to correct.

  She leaned forward and lifted the decanter with shaking hands. Logan placed his hand on hers, refilling her glass with a quiet strength.

  Once Sybil had taken several gulps, she stared into the glass of amber liquid, now half empty. Allowing herself to succumb to the burning sensation numbing her throat, wishing it would do the same to her rapid pulse and abdomen, which had coiled into tight knots.

  “Is that why what we were doing—?” Pausing, Sybil cleared her throat. Her voice was no louder than a jagged murmur when she continued, “Is that why it felt so right? Because I am so proficient—?”

  Sybil coughed against the lump of bile rising in her throat, unable to fathom her powerful reaction.

  This was her life.

  Why did it repulse her so?

  Shifting his weight, Logan placed his arm around her shoulder and pulled her against his chest. It was a kindness she did not expect but one that brought tears to her eyes.

  “There, there,” he said, as she buried her face against the crook of his neck.

  His woodsy scent, one of musk and pine, reminded Sybil of her trek last night in the woods. Her veins pumped hard, fast, causing the hairs on her neck to stand on end. “Is that why I was attacked? Because I did something to deserve it?”

  Logan sighed into her hair. “I don’t know. But I am investigating, with the help of Colin. We shall be discreet and hopefully uncover some answers.”

  “I can see why you despise me,” the fabric of his shirt and cravat were now damp with her tears.

  Smoothing her back in small, circular motions, Logan held her tighter. “After everything you did to make my life miserable, I planned on delighting in your pain when I revealed these truths to you.”

  “Did you?” Sybil asked in a tiny voice. “Enjoy it?”

  “Not one bit, love,” Logan kissed the top of her head. “Not at all.”

  At least he was honest with her.

  Brutally so, but the truth was a necessity. Regardless of how it pummeled her battered soul, she must learn of it, even though the realization made her want to retch.

  Instead, Sybil melded her body against his, allowing him to comfort her for as long as he was willing. Because she didn’t know which Logan would await her in the morning.

  Would he be the kind man he is at this very moment, or the cold man he had been earlier?

  Not certain of the extent to which she had wounded him, Sybil was certain that Logan’s revelations thus far were just the beginning.

  Apprehension and panic rooted itself deep within her abdomen, spiraling like vines around her core and constricting until she found it difficult to breathe.

  If she had made Logan so furious, what had she done to
those who had attacked her? How many would come for her? And why was she holding that knife dripping with blood? Who did it belong to? Were they alive?

  So many questions had arisen with Logan’s admissions.

  Would he still offer her protection tomorrow?

  And, if not, what would she do?

  The visitors arrived shortly after Logan and his guests were seated for breakfast. Five men, his footman warned. Wearing dark greatcoats and demanding an audience with the owner of the estate.

  Well aware that someone may come searching for Sybil, Logan had prepared his footman to escort anyone who called directly into the parlor at the front of the estate. The room was secluded, jutting off the front foyer, and would allow Sybil to remain hidden.

  The footman did as directed, immediately ushering Sybil into the kitchen via the back stairs, where she would not be seen.

  Just as predicted, the hunters had arrived and they sought Sybil. Logan would make damned certain they wouldn’t find her.

  Eve and the Dowager Viscountess remained at the dining table while Logan exchanged a knowing glance with Colin before heading towards the parlor. Upon entering the room, he noted that the men were burly, their coats bulky. He suspected they were armed.

  Little did they know, Logan’s home was an armory. Such happens when a man is haunted by his own past – he prepares for attack. He is perpetually on guard.

  And he hides his arsenals.

  Such was the Logan Ambrose motto – don’t allow anyone to get the better of you. It happened to him several times, both while at war and once with Colin’s insane Scottish stalker.

  It would never happen again.

  “Good morning, gents,” Logan strode to the table on the far side of the room, next to a large, heavy tapestry sheathing a shelf within the wall, upon which sat a loaded pistol. “I understand that you wish to see me, but presented no card to my footman.”

  A man with greasy brown waves and a long beard stepped forward. “We are looking for someone and heard you summoned the doctor to tend to a patient here. We’ve come to inquire who your guest was. We believe it was the woman we seek.”

  Colin took the lead. “No, I’m afraid it is my wife who required the physician. She is most certainly not the woman you seek.”