Bending Tyme Read Free Page B

and he was right—whatever secrets this woman harboured were best explored in the relative privacy of Logan’s country estate, not here in the local brothel.

    Esme woke in unfamiliar clothes to the lurch of a carriage. Two men watched her. She caught her breath, searching Logan’s face now he had removed his mask…the face she had woken to every day for the past two months. Her ‘Lord of the Locket’.
    Several minutes passed in silence.
    Esme’s gaze lingered on the tall figure seated across from her, sweeping across Logan’s face; she recognised the incredulous disbelief she felt rising from the pit of her churning belly reflected in the questions clouding his aquamarine eyes.
    “Impossible,” she muttered.
    The silence stretched on, neither man uttering a word.
    “Wh—wh—what year is this?” she finally managed, her voice raspy.
    Byron tipped his head. “Allow me to introduce myself. George Gordon, Lord Byron. I believe you made the…acquaintance…of Lord Davenport last night. Those of us who are more…familiar…address him as Logan.”
    Esme blushed, watching a knowing smile lift Byron’s lips as a scowl twisted Logan’s, his scent and hers unmistakable on each other’s skin in the close seating. “What year?” Esme held on to a thin shred of reason—surely Charisse had carried this ruse too far.
    Byron reached out one gloved hand. “1814.”
    “Stop the carriage.” Esme stumbled out, not waiting for either man, retching.
    When she had finished, Logan handed her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth, both men studiously ignoring the mess she had left by the side of the road.
    “Not…not possible.”
    “Yet here you are,” Byron said, his voice low, soothing.
    “How did you acquire your necklace?” Logan demanded, the jab to his ribs from Byron reminding Esme of a couple of prepubescent schoolboys.
    Esme scowled at both men. “From a chest buried in the cellar of my Boston offices. The foundations required some structural work. One of the workers found it.”
    “Boston, Massachusetts,” Byron stated, meeting Logan’s gaze.
    “Yes. About two hundred years from now,” Esme replied.
    Esme leant back in her seat, crossing her arms, her chin jutting out. Damn this dress , she thought, kicking at the skirts with one foot. Staring out of the carriage window, she ignored the men sitting across from her, thoughts of her hands around Charisse’s throat affording Esme some welcome comfort.
    When the carriage halted for a short break, Esme flung open the door, ignoring Logan’s outstretched hand and walking away from the two men.

    Byron shook his head, watching Esme wrestle with her skirts while she distanced herself from the carriage. “What will you tell her of your mother’s locket?”
    Logan shook his head. “Nothing, yet.”
    Byron perked up. “Perhaps these final days in the countryside with your guests will prove less tiresome than I envisioned.”

    Esme looked around as the carriage pulled up to a mansion, vast gardens surrounding the main house, cottages dotting the landscape as far as her eye could see. She saw horses—lots of horses—roaming the grounds in the distance. Her heart sank. Somehow, this was real…
    OMG , she thought… I’ve landed in a Jane Austen novel .

    Logan stepped from the carriage, offering Esme his hand, surprised when she let her gloved fingers linger on his arm. Byron lifted one eyebrow, saying nothing, his smile wide when several of Logan’s house guests approached the trio as they entered the parlour.
    “Ah, Lord Davenport, we missed your company at breakfast this morning. I understand you and Lord Byron had unforeseen business prompting your early departure from the masque last evening?” One of Logan’s houseguests, Lady Ashford, stepped forward, her hard glance moving across Esme’s form from her toes to her dishevelled hair and back again.
    Logan started to reply—though he was at a loss for how to explain Esme’s… abrupt appearance to