Bending Tyme (7 page)

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 lifting 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.

Logan brought the crop down again, bending his length over her, one hand lacing through her long locks now, jerking her head back. “Is this what you want?”

Esme felt her cheeks burning, her lust matching his own. She lifted herself off the bed, but Logan moved faster, ripping the thin leather wrist strap swinging from the crop handle and rolling her over onto her back. He ignored her slap as she fought to free herself, intent on making this conquest less than easy for him. He caught her hands before she could deliver a second blow, binding them with the leather strip.

 
Esme kicked out at him but he laughed, spreading her knees with his broad hands, taking away her leverage while his weight bore down on her.

Frustrated, Esme turned to avoid his kiss, but he cupped her face between his hands, forcing her to look into his eyes.

“Is this what you want?” he demanded again, his voice low and husky.

Esme felt the rigid length of his prick against her thigh, the slick film of pre-cum coating the head of his cock, mingling with the moisture dripping from her pussy. Still she bit her lip, refusing to give him any satisfaction.

Logan bent his head, rolling her left nipple in his mouth, delivering gentle bites to her soft skin, biting harder as he moved to give equal attention to her right.

Esme moaned his name, surrendering herself now to the sweet synergy of pain and pleasure surging through her, spreading her legs wider, wanting him in her, right now.

Logan lifted his hips, the head of his cock still teasing her swollen pussy. Esme thrust against him, but he pulled further back in spite of her muffled protests.

Brushing his lips against hers, he asked her again, “Is this what you want?”

Esme arched her back, the need to feel him inside her peaking. “Yes,” she whispered, closing her eyes, revelling in the feel of his mouth, his tongue teasing hers while he slid his full length into her, slowly, so slowly, then faster, slowing his thrusts again just long enough to undo the leather strap binding her wrists.

Her hands free, Esme raked her nails across his flesh, feeling his muscles contract against the pain. He caught her lower lip between his teeth. Biting down, she ran her fingertips along the fresh marks scoring his shoulders, cooling their heat, grabbing his ass.

“Come in me,” she moaned, begging him.

 
Logan kept his lust in check, moving ever more slowly, teasing her—tormenting her—murmuring her name even as she crested, the throbbing muscles in her pussy contracting, leading him to the edge as well.

Esme wrapped her fingers in the dark curls framing his face. “Turn over,” she whispered, and he obliged, the full length of his cock still encased in the tight walls of her throbbing cunt.

Esme rocked her hips forward and back, grinding Logan’s full length into her, pulling his hands to her breasts, watching his face while he moaned her name, fast losing control of his need. Esme slowed her gyrations, her gentle motions sending waves of ecstasy across her swollen clit. Esme’s gaze met Logan’s, his face reflecting the contortions spreading across her own as she started to come, her own release heightened as his gaze dropped to watch the thick length of his engorged cock sliding in her wet heat, the sight driving him over the edge. She gasped when he pulled her down, his arms demanding, Logan consumed with his own need to explode as Esme felt her cunt massaging his swollen rod, his mouth finding hers as they came together, their bodies slick with sweat even in the cool night air.

Logan propped himself up on one elbow, running a finger along the curve of her chin, finding her lips with his, this kiss tender after the bruising heat fuelling their passion.

“We travel to Tennessee soon.”

Esme nestled into his arms, not caring about further travel plans but content to hear the smooth cadence of his voice as he planned their future—together.

His voice filled with excitement now, Logan talked about the limitless possibilities in this new country, unconstrained by the expectations he had abandoned in England. “Perhaps we might press further west someday. I hear of wild horses roaming free across those lands. An intriguing breed for hardiness…”

Esme smiled, letting him talk, burying her face in his shoulder.
Wow
, she thought, considering the exquisite 1969 cherry red Mustang parked outside her office. In maybe two hundred years…

Esme stretched, tumbling from bed at the soft knock on the door. The days and nights of lovemaking rolled one into another, time meaning nothing except to mark the ways they learnt to please each other, a new discovery each time he reached for her.

 
A package lay outside their bedchamber, left by the discreet housemaid.

“The note is from Byron.”

“George takes his leave already?”

Esme laughed. “He’s off chasing his future.”

Logan smiled, her good humour not quite reflected in his own eyes. Perturbed, Esme watched Logan run one finger along the Möbius strip bracelet he still wore.

“You harbour no regrets, about this path you have chosen?” Logan clearly struggled to put voice to his concerns. Esme laced her fingers with Logan’s, tracing the contours of the band together with him this time. She smiled, watching their fingers trace the one boundary of the never-ending circle with the odd twist.

“The future holds only one path for me.”
With you
, she thought. Esme covered Logan’s mouth with her own, that electricity between them dispelling any doubts.

One sharp corner of the box caught Logan in the ribs. With obvious reluctance, he lifted his mouth from the curve of Esme’s neck to inspect the package.

Inside, Logan’s favourite worn riding crop sported a new silver handle, emblazoned with the Davenport crest, the initials ‘L’ and ‘E’ intertwined. Byron had commissioned the piece with the silver from the two Davenport lockets, paying a handsome price—using Logan’s money—for its speedy delivery.

Esme arched one eyebrow at him. “Pretty sure of yourselves, you two. Asses—”

Esme’s voice was muffled in the silk sheets as, moving with that uncanny speed belying his size, Logan flipped her over on her stomach, bringing his riding crop down on her own ass. Esme remembered every detail of the first time this particular crop tasted her fair skin… Her half-hearted protests melted into moans of pleasure as Logan slipped two fingers into her wet pussy, alternating stroking her clit with one hand while he brought the crop down—again, again, again—with the other, stopping only when he felt those familiar rhythmic pulses massaging his fingers. Just like their first time…