Bending Tyme by Maria-Claire Payne Page A

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.