Bending Tyme (4 page)

“Just asking.” Esme’s chin jutted out. She looked around the dance floor, where but a few adventurous souls joined them. Esme lifted her chin higher still.

Esme startled as Logan reached out one hand as if to cup that determined chin in his palm. She watched him fight to suppress the urge, dropping his hand from its proximity to her face, his form and posture impeccable now as he turned her about the floor. Esme closed her eyes for a moment, his cologne—what
was
that scent?—filling her senses. She opened her eyes, blushing to find him watching her. Somehow, the formal distance between them, even as they touched with only the slightest of contact, felt sexier than the usual clinging bump-and-grind she’d experienced with anonymous men at any number of interchangeable night-clubs she frequented.

Used to frequent…

 
Esme looked up to find Logan staring at her, a bemused look on his face. Esme grimaced. She knew Logan was studying her to find some clue to explain the multiplicity of emotions chasing one after another across her face. Emotions that made themselves felt as she struggled to reconcile a kaleidoscope of memories from her past—her future?—with her present in this unfamiliar existence.

Esme bit her lower lip, surrendering the thoughts clouding her mind to the comfort of the one reality that made sense to her right here, right now—his arm around her, connecting them even though they stood apart.

Lost in his scent, remembering his hands on her body without all of these layers between them, Esme let go of the tension in her body. Logan smiled back, much to the obvious consternation of the other young ladies—and their mothers—present at this event.

As soon as the dance ended, a collective sigh of relief swept the room. Decorum was restored as the final notes of that horrible music faded away, and the ladies swarmed away from the dance floor. Esme caught Logan’s eye, but the gentlemen left to smoke and drink before their late dinner—leaving Esme alone in this crowd.

One young lady looked Esme up and down. “Lord Byron does exert an uneasy influence on Lord Davenport, does he not? First that…waltz…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if the mere utterance of the word sullied her reputation. “And now an untimely session with tobacco and drink…” She shook her head at the scandal of it all—clearly enjoying every minute.

Across the expanse of the hall, Betsy tapped her forehead and Esme realised she was suggesting a ladylike way out of the crescendo of voices threatening to crack Esme’s resolute choice—
choice? What choice?
—to make the best of this night.

“I fear”—Esme balked at that word, but, catching Betsy’s stern gaze, she forced herself to continue—“I fear I suffer from the ill-effects of my journey from…Boston. I beg to take my leave of you, ladies.” At least protocol worked
to
her advantage this time, Esme thought, watching the disappointment crossing their faces even as they wished her well.

Esme retired to her bedchamber and fell asleep, her rest fitful, the sounds of the ball resuming and a late meal—and then more dancing still—interrupting her troubled dreams.

“For fuck’s sake, don’t these people ever sleep?” Esme considered the endless rounds of business luncheons, charity events and other schmoozing necessary to build her business into the success she and her staff enjoyed. She and her friends were amateurs, all of them, nothing more than rank amateurs compared to these privileged gentry who partied harder—for months on end, no less—than anyone Esme knew in her own time.

Maybe a walk to clear her head.

Dismayed, Esme looked through the clothes Betsy had laid out for the morning, loath to tackle the requisite layers. She threw open the wardrobe, hoping to find something resembling a pair of jeans and T-shirt. Wishful thinking, of course… But her hands closed on a worn pair of deerskin breeches and a simple man’s shirt. Well, not a man’s… Esme realised these garments must have belonged to Logan as a boy.

Even so, the shirt billowed about her as she tucked it into the waist of the breeches. She inhaled—the garments smelt like him. She pulled on a pair of well-worn riding boots, his sister’s, perhaps, and slipped out into the hall.

Chapter Three

After making her way down the flight of steps to the first landing without discovery, Esme let her breath out—then she saw one of Logan’s guests ascending the lower portion of the stairway.

“Ah, now what have we here?” the man muttered, clearly inebriated. Esme met his leer with a look of disgust, pushing past him, startled when he grabbed at her.

Self-defence training kicking in, Esme yelled, “Let go of me!” She pulled back, hoping to get away with as little fuss as possible, appalled to hear her voice reverberate up and down the staircase, the acoustics not favouring stealth.

Logan and several of his guests heard her, too—before she knew it Logan was bounding up the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time, Byron at his heels.

They arrived in time to watch Esme pivot, one leg flying through the air, her sweep kick bringing the drunken Lord Jameson to the floor. His head slammed against the banister, knocking him out cold.

Byron lifted one eyebrow. Logan stood, silent, his houseguests exclaiming behind him.

Several of the men carried Jameson to his room. All eyes turned towards Esme, the women taking in every detail of the outfit she sported—and at such an hour. She shrank against the wall, wanting to disappear, thinking right now would be an excellent time to wake up in her penthouse bedroom. In the twenty-first century.

Byron herded the other guest back down the stairs, leaving Logan alone with Esme.

“Out for a midnight ride, Miss Tyme?” Logan’s grip on her arm hurt—but not as much as the sarcasm in his voice.

“I needed air.”

Esme watched his jaw clench. He walked her, in silence, back to her room.

An hour later, Betsy knocked at her door, a letter of apology from Lord Jameson in hand—he had mistaken her for something other than a lady.

“Like that excuses his behaviour?” Esme looked at Betsy. “What do I do?”

“A letter accepting his apology is customary, miss, although naught will prevent Lord Davenport from meeting Lord Jameson on the field of honour at dawn.”

* * * *

“A duel? Are all of you out of your minds? I’m fine, really. A duel? Logan, he apologised, I accepted—we’re done!”

Logan and Byron sat in the library, drinking brandy. Esme’s uninvited entrance drew Byron’s smile, while Logan’s jaw clenched yet again, his insistence on grinding his teeth at every mishap involving his sultry time-traveller assuring he invited a cracked tooth soon.

“He laid hands on you under my roof. An apology does not suffice. Your honour—and mine—demands I meet with your attacker on the field of honour.”

“Ridiculous…just ridiculous,” Esme sputtered.

“Perchance you will consider the potential consequences of such behaviour in future, then, Miss Tyme.”

Esme’s eyes narrowed at Logan’s comment. “Gee, not much changes over the next couple of hundred years, either. Some drunken idiot gropes me, and somehow that’s my fault!”

Logan sighed. “Are you obtuse to bedevil me? Lord Jameson holds sole responsibility for his behaviour—and I am obligated to a course of action as a consequence.”

Byron stood, taking Esme’s arm. “Let me escort you back to your room, Mademoiselle.”

Outside her bedroom once again, Esme turned her face up to Lord Byron. “George, please. Reason with him.”

Byron looked down at her forlorn expression. “Stay in your room, Esme, until Betsy sends word for you to join us at breakfast.” He winked, leaving her little consoled.

Esme paced away the remaining night hours. Two shots rang out at dawn, a commotion ensuing downstairs while the other guests exclaimed at the unexpected turn of events—what excellent fodder to while away the morning hours engaged in idle gossip… Esme wanted to scream.

Betsy opened Esme’s door. “Lord Davenport suffered no injury, miss. Lord Jameson took a bullet to his right shoulder. The surgeon is attending him as we speak, and he and his company will be leaving as soon as he is fit to travel.”

Esme breathed out, shocked to find her hands shaking. “At least he didn’t kill him.”

Betsy chuckled. “Oh, miss, Lord Jameson posed no threat to Lord Davenport. My youngest nephew sports better aim than that one. Now, I did consider, seeing the storm in Lord Davenport’s face, that he might very well aim true—Lord Davenport being the crack shot he is, miss.”

Esme downed the tea Betsy handed her. “But he didn’t.”

Betsy refilled Esme’s cup, laughing again. “Well, miss, I believe Lord Jameson has you to thank for that. Is there anything else, miss?”

“Betsy, gather up the female staff. We need one man to join us. Meet me in the ballroom in fifteen minutes.”

The household settled back into relative quiet, many of the guests retiring to rest or to prattle, anticipating an even later breakfast than the norm after the long events of the evening and early morning.

Esme, still dressed in Logan’s boyhood buckskins and shirt, walked into the ballroom where Betsy and several of the housemaids stood, looking nervous.

“You
know what happened last night.”

The women nodded.

“You also know I managed to defend myself.”

Laughter greeted Esme’s comment, the women seeming to relax at her smile.

“Some of my skills took years of practice in…Boston…to develop, but I can show you four basic moves to keep scum like that off you.”

Esme marched up to Jeremy, a stable hand Betsy had managed to bully into joining the group at Esme’s request for a man in attendance. “Try to grab me.”

Jeremy balked. “Oh, no miss, I could never…”

Logan’s deep voice rang out. “Perhaps I may offer my assistance.”

The women each dropped a curtsy, finding interesting specks of dust to study on the floorboards, the tension between Logan and Esme instantaneous and tangible to all. Jeremy beat a hasty retreat.

“Fine.” Esme raised her chin, struggling to concentrate. Damn that cologne he favoured… Bay rum, Byron had mentioned.

Esme relaxed her posture. “Grab me.”

The servants watched, breathless, but Logan stood still for what seemed forever in the strained atmosphere between Esme and himself—then he lunged, a collective gasp rising from the women as he grabbed Esme from behind, lifting her off her feet, pulling her tight against the hard length of his own body, bending one of her arms behind her back. Esme fought the tears stinging her eyes, this pain real, his speed disorienting her…but only for a moment.

Before Logan had time to torment her further, Esme used her unrestrained arm to elbow him in the solar plexus. She heard him gasp for breath as he doubled over, his grip on her loosening just enough—before he recovered from her sharp elbow, she brought her right boot heel down on his instep. Struggling to maintain his balance, searing pain evident in his face, Logan released her arm. Esme pivoted, one open palm cracking his nose while her left knee caught him square in the testicles. Logan fell to his knees, blood spurting from his nose, instinctively clutching his groin.

Esme turned her back to him, the shocked faces of the serving women allowing her some small measure of satisfaction. “Solar-plexus, instep, nose, groin—all you need to do is ‘SING’ if some fool makes unwanted advances.”

Logan shot out one leg, the sweep kick she had used to bring Lord Jameson down the evening before now doing the same to her. Logan learnt fast. She fell back against him, finding herself in his arms as he prevented her from hitting the floor.

“Never turn your back on your opponent while he still draws breath,” Logan added, his sardonic tone at odds with his bloody nose. He pulled her to her feet, dismissing the servants’ tittering as they went off to regale the rest of the staff with this latest episode between the lord of the manor and his erstwhile lady.

“Lord Davenport met his match in this one,” Betsy commented, her voice loud, sending the servants into peals of laughter that echoed back down the long hallway.

Logan scowled at the sound. “I do not recall such entertainment scheduled on the cards for this day, Miss Tyme.” He headed towards the winding staircase, Esme trailing after him.

“I had to do something.” Esme turned her face up to him. “Thank you for sending Lord Jameson away with just a flesh wound.”

Logan grimaced. “He is no gentleman. Now all know him for the drunken coward he is—”

“—And your honour remains intact,” Esme finished. She sighed. “You need a doctor to look at your nose.”

Logan stopped outside his bedroom door, one eyebrow raised. “Yes.”

Esme blushed, realising he sought some privacy to nurse the wounds she had inflicted.

Logan hesitated before he slipped into the quiet of his bedchamber. “Does honour hold so little value in your world?”

“Well, in some circles, this maybe would have been settled via something we call a drive-by…” Esme’s voice trailed off. She knew Logan was in no mood for her cryptic references to events meaning nothing to him.

“I…may I go for a ride? I understand women sometimes ride in breeches? I’d fall off a side-saddle.”