Bending Tyme by Maria-Claire Payne Page B

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