Despite that, she was a game little bird. He hadn’t heard a peep from her in the past ten minutes. Not an easy deed if her heart was pumping as fast as his was. But while hers was tripping along with fear, his was fueled by adrenaline—the very thing of which he’d come in search. Although the euphoria was fading now, his smile of elation was impossible to restrain.
Like a regular Saint George, he’d rescued a damsel from her dragon using nothing more than a bit of quick thinking and guile. So what if the adventure had been brief and harmless in nature? If the dally-man meant to find this little hen, he no doubt would later. She was a free agent at the moment, though, and Deegan realized he had no idea what she looked like. Or how appreciative she might be for his timely rescue.
Since her pursuer had taken his search elsewhere, it was time to find out.
Deegan pushed away from the wall and silently covered the few yards to her hiding place. As far as he could see, she hadn’t changed her position since he’d lowered her behind the crates. Granted, the area was narrow and even the smallest movement would have disturbed the packing cases, but he was still amazed that she could stay so still for so long, considering the spirit she’d displayed while hissing at him earlier. She’d certainly sounded affronted that he took her pursuer to be her lover. More likely the chump had been a relative using strong-arm methods in an attempt to tame her. It would be a pity when he succeeded.
It wasn’t any of his business, Deegan decided. He’d done his part in delaying the inevitable. The women of the Barbary Coast broke sooner or later. He’d watched it happen with Hannah and others while growing up. If it wasn’t through abuse by their men, it was through their love for those same undeserving fellows.
This was not the day the wren bowed to that reality.
Deegan plucked aside a couple of the empty crates and hunkered down next to her. She seemed frozen in place, the awkward bulk of a camera held tightly to her breast and her eyes squeezed tightly shut, her lashes creating neat chestnut crescents above her flushed cheeks. The hem of her brown skirt was flipped up, showing him a pair of sturdy laced boots and a glimpse of shapely, stockinged calf, the display a result of their haste in hiding her earlier.
“He’s gone,” Deegan said softly.
Her eyes flew open, allowing him another glance of their alluring pastel-blue shading. “Truly?” she whispered.
“Truly,” he assured her. One after another, Deegan pried her fingers free from the camera.
She didn’t seem aware of his actions. She turned her head, letting her cheek press into the gravel again as she peered out at the street to verify the accuracy of his words. Seeing that he spoke the truth, she melted with relief, a sigh that was part sob escaping her lips. “Thank you.”
“Not at all.” Setting the camera on its stilt-like legs, Deegan offered her a hand and pulled her to her feet. She was hasty in releasing him, the action that of a woman ill at ease around an unknown man. It wasn’t a reaction he associated with females who frequented the streets of the Barbary Coast. Rather than lean on him, she wilted against the wall slightly as she got her bearings once more.
Deegan took the time to study her more fully. She most certainly wasn’t the wren he’d first thought her, based on her coloring and her frightened plea for help. Her eyes were definitely her best feature, not only because of their unusual shade, but because they were framed by an upsweep of long, thick lashes. Her face was one of character rather than beauty, and she was tall, an aspect he liked in a woman. A smudge of dirt marred the soft curve of her cheek in a streak that led his eyes to her lips. They were parted slightly and very kissable. Her whole manner bespoke a proper upbringing, one untarnished by life in a Coast pimp’s harem. If he’d gotten a good look at her earlier, he never would have made the mistake of thinking she was running from her lover. It was a shame if she’d never had a lover, he thought as he quickly scanned the rest of her delightful form. A definite shame.
A frizzed bit of bang covered her brow, while the rest of her chestnut-brown hair was braided and bound in a coil on the crown of her head. She didn’t seem aware that her close-fitting chip bonnet had been knocked awry. It hadn’t survived the adventure unscathed, for the once proud ostrich plume drooped, the quill broken, and the ribbons trailed away over her breast instead of being tied neatly beneath her chin.
Her brown walking suit was plain, the draped apron of the skirt trimmed with a modest binding of black fringe, and the high collar conformed tightly to the lovely length of her throat. It was clearly the creation of an experienced dressmaker, the coffee-colored fabric alone too rich in texture to belong to any woman in the Barbary Coast. She wore no jewelry, not even earrings, and rather than carry a drawstring purse, she had two satchels strapped across her torso like saddlebags.
She was quite out of the ordinary, which was probably the reason he found her refreshingly attractive.
Taking out his handkerchief, Deegan handed it to her. “You might want to tidy up before you rejoin your friends,” he said, indicating the smudge on her cheek.
“My friends?” Her lovely eyes became clouded with confusion as she accepted the pristine square of cloth. She touched the less bulky of her twin satchels briefly. “Yes, of course, but first I need to speak to the police to tell them about Belle’s murder.” She paused a moment and her eyes grew wider. She reached out, clasping his arm with one gloved hand. “Oh, and you must come with me. Between us, we can most certainly identify that man. I know I shall never forget his face, and I’m sure you had an excellent look at him, too.”
Despite the fact that he had associated closely with an operative of the Pinkerton Detective Agency a few months past, Deegan wasn’t keen on dealing with any branch of law enforcement at present, particularly the policemen assigned to the Coast. There was always the chance that one of them had been around long enough to remember him as Digger O’Rourke.
A gust of wind whistled down the alleyway, giving him an excuse to delay any excursion to the precinct house as it swirled her skirts and nearly tore her hat free. His wren shivered and left off scrubbing her cheek clean with his handkerchief to thump a hand down on her chapeau, further mangling the broken ostrich plume.
“Think about the police later,” Deegan urged. “For now, I think we need to get you out of the weather. Find somewhere that you can have something warm to drink.”
“Tea would be incredibly nice,” she agreed as she retied her bonnet ribbons.
A neat whiskey suited him much better and was easier to come by in the Coast. It would warm her much more efficiently, too.
“Do you think there is a tea room near the police station?” she asked, stooping slightly to reclaim her camera.
Deegan had no intention of finding out. “Allow me,” he said, taking the camera from her. She looked uncertain about giving it over into his keeping, but after a considering pause, relinquished it without an argument. He settled the box against his shoulder as she had done, surprised at how heavy the contraption was and how unruly the gangly tripod legs were.
“I don’t think it would be smart for you to trail about the streets just yet,” he remarked lightly, his attention seemingly on taming the tripod rather than on her. “Your determined friend may not have gone far.”
A frown formed small furrows over the bridge of her nose. “You are quite right. I hadn’t considered that. But I can’t just wait when Belle’s body is…is…” Her cheeks blanched suddenly and she wavered unsteadily on her feet.
Encumbered with the camera, Deegan could do little more than grip her elbow tightly to keep her upright.
“Oh, thank you,” she murmured faintly. “Just the thought of—” She broke