Bending Tyme

by Maria-Claire Payne

  Esme ran into Logan first, wearing that scowl she recognised as having something to do with her.

  “Am I in trouble again?” Esme figured she had missed some mandatory fox or quail hunt, whatever defenceless creatures these people, mounted on Logan’s prize horseflesh, amassed to torment.

  Logan gave the ghost of a smile. “No, yet plans must be made.”

  “Where is everyone?” Esme asked.

  Byron approached the two. Esme prepared herself for his latest delight at her expense, especially after last night’s fireworks.

  “Lord Davenport’s other guests have departed for the next house. The Ashfords must work especially hard to meet new expectations after recent events under the Davenport roof.”

  Logan shot him a baleful look.

  Byron continued. “Lord Davenport has completed his duties as host, and now becomes another’s guest for the next few days—perhaps a week. So this world turns.”

  Esme looked from one man to the other, aware there was a carriage being made ready for travel outside Logan’s doors.

  No way…

  “Well, enjoy yourselves.”

  Esme saw Logan’s jaw clench as she watched Byron turn on his heel, and she arched a brow at his sudden, inexplicable need to retire post-haste to his room.

  “We shall not be in attendance for the festivities at the Ashford estates, Esme. We make for Gretna Green. An elopement will be forgiven in due course.”

  “A what?” Esme’s loud—and furious—tone startled even her.

  Logan tried to take her hand. “We shall marry, of course.”

  “Are you kidding me? I sleep in your bed and wake up…betrothed? This is your idea of a proposal?”

  Byron and most of the servants lined the windows, now, watching the two squaring off. Again.

  Logan’s tone could crack ice. “I assumed this would meet with your satisfaction, avoiding a formal engagement and ceremony—”

  Esme interrupted. “That’s the problem, Logan! You assume!”

  Conscious of all eyes in the house turned towards them, Logan took Esme’s arm. “Miss Tyme, I beseech you, get in the carriage.”

  “You ass! You are such an ass! Your cover story for me sucks, Logan! ‘Ward’ my ass. Patriarchal protector bullshit… I am the chief executive officer of my own antiques company—and a damned successful one at that. So you can just kiss my twenty-first century ass, you pompous…ass.” Esme sputtered a bit, at a loss in her white-hot fury to think of a substitute for the word ‘ass’.

  By now, Byron stood next to his friend. “Did she suggest you should kiss her arse or whip her donkey? Shall I call for your riding crop, Lord Davenport? Quite vulgar behaviour in a ward of the Davenports. I stand in shock and dismay.” Byron guffawed.

  Esme narrowed her eyes at Byron’s delight at her discomfiture, watching the poet suppress his mirth only when Logan’s hard gaze fell on him. Logan’s eyes shaded to a cobalt blue, his fury matching Esme’s own.

  “She enjoys the riding crop, Lord Byron. I fear to fuel the fire. Perhaps this will cool her fever.” Logan moved fast, catching everyone off guard.

  He scooped Esme up in his arms, tossing her over his shoulder with no more care than when he had carried a sack of oats for his favourite horses that morning. He strode towards the fresh spring running along one embankment, bordering the fencing grounds..

  Byron and Logan’s house staff trailed along after the pair, keeping a respectful distance—but not so far away as to miss hearing the stream of expletives—some familiar, many not—spewing from Esme’s mouth as she pounded on Logan’s back, demanding he put her down.

  Logan tightened his grip. “I am indeed lord of the manor, as you insist on reminding me—”

  “Yeah, and how’s that working out for you? Couldn’t catch a virginal enough social butterfly to pin with the family crest last night, so I’ll do?”

  Logan waded into the shallow pool bubbling under the spread of branches dancing in the breeze overhead, filtered sunlight dappling the lazy swirls of fresh water, the tranquil setting idyllic from any vantage except Esme’s, slung upside down over his shoulder.

  “Put me down!”

  “As you wish, Miss Tyme.”

  Esme gasped as she landed in the cold water.

  No one said a word.

  She caught Logan watching her, and she cast her gaze down, working mightily to appear contrite. She peeked up at him from beneath her lashes, watching him fight to control his own emotions. That look on his face told her Logan considered his own actions more inexcusable than hers. His stricken face spoke volumes—to treat a lady so… Trying not to laugh, Esme looked down again.

  Obviously flustered again—and not at all accustomed to feeling so, except in Esme’s company—Logan reached down with one hand to help her to her feet.

  Esme struck, pulling him off-balance, kicking one leg out from under him.

  The two of them glared at each other from their respective seats in the cold spring, Byron motioning for the servants to leave, their laughter trailing behind them. A groomsman left Logan’s favourite stallion grazing a discreet distance away.

  “I leave you to your bathing, Lord Davenport.” Byron tipped his hat in Esme’s direction. “Miss Tyme.”

  Chuckling, Byron strolled back to the main house, wondering which of the pair would relent first—or if their stubbornness would perchance result in their sitting on their respective…‘asses’ in that cold spring all through the evening and into the night.

  Esme felt the chill first, her lips turning blue, yet she refused to budge. Logan sighed, watching her shake. He stood, pulling her to her feet.

  “Silence,” he muttered, before she said a word. Esme started to protest, but the look in his eyes gave her pause.

  Logan swung himself up on his horse, reaching down to pull her up as well, shifting her weight between his arms while he held the reins and his mount steady. Esme shook in the chill air and Logan, cursing under his breath, pulled her closer against his body.

  “Why does each day and night begin with such a display between us?”

  Esme looked up into his troubled face, torn between wanting to slap him and just…wanting him. “I don’t know, Logan. Maybe because I’m a bad fit for this time and place.”

  Hurt, Logan looked away. “Yet I think you an excellent fit for me.”

  Esme turned her head. “Oh, Logan…”

  “I lack any skill to return you to your own time, but I can return you to more familiar territory, perhaps. I will make arrangements for us to travel to Boston.”

  “These rooms seem a bit tight but I thought we’d share one, especially with no other passengers to outrage with our scandalous behaviour,” Esme suggested, tentatively—that clenched jaw of Logan’s boded ill. She reached out to him. “Long trip ahead of us…”

  Esme stopped talking.

  “I will have all of you, or none of you.”

  Her chin lifted. “Some people might suggest that’s cutting off your nose to spite your face.”

  Logan pushed her hands away.

  “I know not how to be casual in any bed we share, Esme.”

  “Fine,” she muttered, walking away. “As always, as you wish, Lord Davenport.”

  Logan returned to his stateroom, furious—with himself or with Esme, he did not know. Watching her on deck—this ship moving her ever closer to leaving him—had left him raging. Logan poured a liberal measure of brandy and stretched out on the small bed, the steady rocking of the ship reminding him of the rhythm of their lovemaking, how she felt in his arms, how he felt deep inside her…

  He snatched up his riding crop, testing the popper against a teacup, cracking it in two, the sound fuelling his frustration.

  Logan lowered his breeches, intending to force a quick release of the tension building within, but he closed his eyes, slowing his hand, imagining her fingers, not his own, wrapped around his cock. His other hand closed on the locket he carried with him always—no need t
o gaze on the face within. He had memorised each curve, the reality of her a revelation after long years of wondering…

  Logan spread his legs, cupping his balls, feeling her mouth licking, sucking, one finger stroking that sensitive skin between his testicles and his anus, where no one else had touched him before Esme.

  Logan groaned, rock-hard, his hand moving faster now, his fist rolling over the head of his cock, imagining her mouth on his erect length while he tongued her wet depths, the scent of her passion filling his nostrils…

  Dropping the locket, his free hand closed on his riding crop, envisioning the worn leather against her fair arse. Logan came, calling her name, his seed spilling over his fist and into his bed, where he lay…alone.

  Pondering one of their conversations, Byron stood on deck with Esme during the final hours of the interminable journey, watching the stars overhead.

  Byron scowled, noticing the dark circles shadowing Esme’s eyes that attested to her sad mood. “You decry your modern interpretation of the fairy tales inspired by the inimitable Brothers Grimm, yet you still wish Logan to appear from his chamber to sweep you from your feet for a happily-ever-after.”

  Esme frowned. “My head tells me fairytale endings don’t happen, but my heart still wants one.”

  Byron shook his head. “Society bound you by its peculiar conventions in your time. You say your success depended in part on your abiding by sets of rules—it is no different to the way Logan is bound by the conventions of his station, in this time.”

  “Logan was born to privilege. I worked hard to be successful in my own time, George.”

  Byron looked down at her. “And how was that working out for you?”

  Esme frowned, hearing her own words echoed back at her, the truth offering no comfort.

  “Ah, Esme, time bent once before to bring you here. Can Tyme not bend once more?”

  Esme lifted her chin. “Why me? He told me to keep my distance on this trip, remember. Can’t he just ask me to stay?”

  “Woman! He asks every time he casts his gaze at you and draws breath.” Byron frowned. “Not all men parlay with words as I.”

  Byron watched her walk away, her gentle sway in time with the ship. Considering Esme’s utter familiarity with Lord Davenport’s given name—and his bedchamber—a hint of a smile pushed its way through the poet’s ill-humour. He fingered the Möbius bracelet he wore and retired to his own room, trusting destiny to favour fools in love…

  Chapter Five

  Throughout the silent carriage ride to Logan’s Boston townhouse, Byron glared at each of his companions in turn. Destiny was not much help to these two fools, anyway. Or perchance destiny just needed his aid…

  Logan stopped the carriage at his solicitor’s office. “Lord Byron will obtain you passage to Waltham and serve as your escort until you settle in appropriate lodgings.” He handed Esme several letters sealed with his family crest. “Letters of introduction and a line of credit.”

  Esme protested; Logan insisted. “You need money, Miss Tyme.” Esme looked down, crushed to hear him address her so again. “My solicitor will see to the details.”

  With Logan absent, Byron glared at Esme until they arrived at Logan’s Boston residence, then collected his friend’s personal items from the seat he had vacated earlier.

  A tea service appeared from the kitchen, the young servant coming and going in silence.

  Byron curled a lip at his teacup, supplementing its contents with brandy from his hip flask. Esme held out her cup, too, downing its contents in unladylike gulps.

  “The pair of you smell of April and May, yet you will not admit it. Damnable hubris.”

  Esme poured more tea, holding out her hand for Byron’s flask.

  “I don’t know how to change to conform to his world, George.” Esme frowned. Nor did she want to change.

  She sighed. “I am no lady to the manor born. I do know nineteenth-century textiles, art—and sales. I appear to be stuck here—shouldn’t I try to create a future for myself?”

  Esme’s head ached—surreal to discuss her future some two centuries before her birth. Or maybe the brandy had caused the sudden pounding between her temples.

  Byron stopped pacing. “Logan swore me to secrecy, but destiny demands I betray that confidence out of loyalty.”

  Esme frowned, confused.

  Byron took a swig from his flask, not bothering with tea. “Prior to our departure, Logan divided portions of his British properties among the families who have served him well. His title passes to his cousin.”

  “What?”

  “Logan has long harboured a desire to follow his parents to this place. Have you two found time to discuss naught, except to fight and bed-sport? Perhaps if you had each spent less time avoiding the other on that long journey here?”

  Esme blushed. “Why now?”

  “His nephew comes of age and is able to assume such responsibility. And I believe he waited for the woman in this locket. Perchance that is fairytale enough for you?”

  Byron dropped Logan’s satchel into her lap. Legal papers spilled out, some stipulating his gift of portions of his British properties to his servants; others bills of sale for various breeds of horses to Logan; and several bills of sale to Logan’s father some years past, patch-working together an immense acreage in Tennessee.

  Yet the object taking her breath away hung from a braided gold chain—a locket. Her locket—or rather, the twin to her locket. Esme gasped. Inside, nestled in the gold half, mirroring her own, lay a portrait. Her portrait.

  “Why didn’t he tell me?” Esme caught her breath, her thoughts spinning…damn that brandy. But why did this place seem so…familiar?

  OMG…Esme stood up, papers falling to the floor, Logan’s locket clutched in one hand.

  “Byron, this is my Boston headquarters. Someday.” Not this structure, no—the Great Boston Fire in 1860 or 70 something had consumed this building. But this property…

  “I am home,” Esme whispered.

  Byron undid the clasp around her neck, taking the two lockets in his hand, examining the pins holding each together. He released the locking mechanisms, sliding the two golden halves together. He handed her the reassembled locket, open, Logan’s slight smile and piercing gaze—and her own—looking back at her.

  Byron smiled his satisfaction. “I trust you to your future, Mademoiselle, as I take my leave to make my own.” He paused. “I will miss you, my unique friend.” Byron looked at the portrait of a younger Logan and his parents gracing one wall. “I fear I leave behind the dearest of friends.”

  “Well, I know with some certainty you make another intriguing friend in a couple of years, George. Refrain from hitting on his wife, okay?” She bit her tongue before she let on that the wife’s stepsister presented fair game, though.

  Byron smiled. “Perhaps I shall rewrite my future as Logan does his and choose to forsake England for more…fertile ground.”

  Esme said nothing. Byron’s destiny was his to decide—he needed no affirmation from her for the choices he would make. “George, I do have one question before you leave. The poem you wrote during the storm…”

  Byron cupped her chin. “Your lovely countenance did indeed inspire my first line but, in truth, I thought of another as I wrote.”

  “Then symmetry exists between my universes, after all.” Esme hugged him tight.

  Night fell, with no sign of Logan.

  Esme opened the door to his bedroom and curled up in the armchair by the fire, stroking the smooth gold of the Davenport locket, wondering if his mother—somehow knowing, somehow envisioning Logan’s future—had buried the half the workers had unearthed just weeks ago. Or would unearth two centuries later… She shook her head, dizzied by the convergences of time.

  Lulled by the crackle of the wood in the fireplace, Esme, reams of legal documents clutched in one hand, drifted off to sleep in spite of the butterflies beating a tattoo in her belly.

  She woke to strong arms liftin
g her from her chair, Logan’s mouth finding hers.

  “I just learnt your official title,” Esme murmured.

  “Clearly I must meet with George on a field of honour,” he whispered into her hair, fingering the locket she wore. He smiled. “Earl of Davenport.”

  “Yes, I read all about it,” she said, nodding towards the documents littering the floor. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” She covered his hand with her own, opening the locket.

  Logan cupped her face in his hands. “I need you to stay of your own accord.”

  Esme frowned. “You planned to just let me leave, then?”

  Logan ran one finger along her jutting chin, shaking his head at her contrariness. “Travel conditions would have been such to delay your departure for weeks, perhaps months.”

  “Schemer.” Esme looked deep into his eyes, watching their aquamarine brilliance turn that deep blue, knowing his need matched her own, this uncharacteristic shyness she felt only in his arms making her blush. “You know this property will be mine in, like, a hundred and ninety-something years? Don’t get too comfortable, dude.”

  “Perhaps you’ll give me leave to stay this night,” Logan murmured, running his broad palms across her curves, cupping her ass, pulling her close.

  “You are wearing too many clothes, sir.” Esme felt the hard length of his cock through the layers of material between them, Logan laughing at her impatience as she struggled to undo the buttons and tabs keeping her hands from his flesh.

  Finally, he stood nude, the glow from the fire highlighting the muscled strength of his physique. Now he grew impatient, ripping the thin fabric of her chemise from her body. Esme reached up to kiss him but Logan turned her around, encircling her with his left arm, bending her over his bed. The first crack of his new riding crop, the leather stiff, met its mark—he thrust her legs apart with one knee and Esme gasped at the feel of his tongue probing her, his tongue and his fingers in her pussy fuelling the heat rising from where the leather popper had struck her ass.