Bending Tyme (6 page)

Logan pulled his drawers up and the remnants of her chemise down, a hopeless attempt to preserve a semblance of modesty. He lifted her in his arms, the rain a gentle sprinkle now, the storm spent.

Not a soul roamed the halls, the servants keeping their distance as the filthy lord and his equally filthy lady passed through on their way to Logan’s bedchamber.

Logan wrapped Esme in a towel and washed first, quickly, silent again. Then he lowered Esme into the steaming bath, washing the mud from the length of her hair. He lifted her from the dirty water into a second, fresh, tub, climbing in behind her, the close confines spooning him up against her.

Esme soaked in the warm steam, his arms wrapped around her, lulled by the strong beat of his heart.

Remaining silent, Logan stood up when the water cooled, lifting Esme from the bath to towel her dry. Esme shivered in the chill night air from the open windows of his room; Logan pulled back the blankets on his bed, sliding in beside her.

Esme rolled onto her right side, watching the rise and fall of Logan’s chest, reaching out one hand to explore the different textures—his firm skin, the fine mat of hair spreading down his torso—pausing to caress one nipple then the other, her teeth-marks evident around the sensitive nubs.

Logan caught her hand in his, rolling over to face her and share her pillow.

“From whence—or when—you came to me matters not.” Logan cupped her chin in his right hand, his left caressing her breasts, his eyes shining in the softness of the candles burning nearby. “Here you are.”

Esme drifted off to sleep in the warmth of his bed, the last sight before she closed her eyes the brilliant aquamarine of his, looking at her with something she never had experienced with any other man—love.

Chapter Four

Esme woke alone, stretching her aching muscles. She smiled at the light bruises around her right ankle and her wrists, Logan’s fingerprints evident on her thighs, love-bites trailing across her breasts.

All those layers might prove useful today.

Esme walked down to the library, wondering what entertainment occupied Logan’s guests—the entire house was silent. Confused, Esme headed towards the kitchen, seeking out Betsy.

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 to 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.”