Wicked. Beth Henderson
of the area. “Can you, in all honesty, tell me this is civilization?” he asked.
Lilly looked past the buildings, past the narrow alleyways, seeing instead the children, the women she had met.
“This is the jungle, Miss Renfrew. Only the strong survive, and then only if fate favors them,” Deegan continued.
Perhaps it was, but wasn’t that part of the reason she had chosen to document conditions in the Coast? To help balance the scales of justice?
“The law is for everyone, Mr. Galloway,” she said.
“Is it?” he murmured. “Or is it merely that you want Belle avenged and know yourself ill-equipped to accomplish a personal vendetta? The law wields a dandy sword of vengeance, doesn’t it?”
The accusation stung. Lilly’s cheeks burned with color. In part, what he suggested was the truth, yet wasn’t that precisely the reason the judicial system had been created? Whether it was called vengeance or justice, when a sentence was delivered, the result was the same—evil was punished.
Even stronger than her desire for vindication was the mystery of how Deegan Galloway seemed capable of reading the secrets she kept locked in her heart. If only she could read him half as well. But she couldn’t. Not on this short acquaintance. Perhaps not even in a lifetime.
Afraid Deegan could in truth read her thoughts, Lilly hastened to push them aside. “Perhaps in my heart I am a vigilante,” she admitted. “I liked Belle. I felt sorry for her. I would have helped her leave if it was in my power. But I couldn’t and she’s gone. I know that punishing her murderer won’t bring Belle back. However, he shouldn’t be allowed to get away with such a heinous crime. If I do nothing and he kills another defenseless woman, I would feel her blood upon my hands.”
Deegan’s mouth curved slightly in an ironic smile. “Yes, I suppose you would,” he agreed. “All right. Although I doubt it will accomplish much, I’ll see that you reach the police with your story.”
Lilly noticed that he hadn’t promised to escort her there himself. Despite the fact that he looked more and more out of place in these surroundings, she supposed he had good reason to be in the Coast. Somehow she doubted it was as honorable a reason as her own. Perhaps his insistence that the law held little sway in the area was based on a desire to believe that was true because he wished to avoid due process himself.
What crime could he have committed? Other than stealing a woman’s heart, that is. She felt him very capable of that particular crime.
“And after I speak with the police, sir? What happens then?”
His smile widened. “Why, then, Miss Renfrew, you will have my full attention. You see, contrary to what you might believe based on my callous distrust of local law officials, if something unforeseen happened to you, I, too, would feel that I had blood on my hands. Your blood.”
He was being theatrical again, echoing her own overly dramatic words. Yet even if the statement was nothing more than a glib twisting of her words, Lilly felt warmed at the idea, false as it might be, that he cared what became of her. “Thank you, Mr. Galloway,” she murmured. “I appreciate your gentlemanly concern.”
“Then you’re sadly mistaken, darlin’,” he said, the lilt of Ireland creeping back into his voice, “because there’s not a lick of gentleman in my entire being.”
She didn’t believe him, Deegan knew. He could tell by the way her pretty eyes glowed when she looked at him. She thought him heroic even though he’d tried to show her he had far more in common with villainy.
Well, perhaps he hadn’t tried that hard. There was something about her that appealed to his sense of adventure. He’d been in dangerous situations frequently over the years—far too frequently—but never before had he had the opportunity to come to the rescue of a damsel in distress. As a result he hadn’t thought ahead to the consequences of his actions. Now not only did he have Lilly Renfrew’s admiring gaze to deal with, he had the necessity of keeping himself and Hannah out of the pot of trouble Lilly was set on brewing.
The photograph she’d taken of Belle Tauber was safely stowed in his inner vest pocket, the damp cardboard edges of the cabinet card feeling cold despite the thickness of his rough shirt. The sensation made it impossible for him to forget such evidence. At least to him it was evidence that Lilly’s story was true. He doubted that the police—even the honest ones, of which there were damn few—would agree with him, though. But they hadn’t seen the terror in her face when she’d barreled into him, hadn’t seen the grim determination in the eyes of the man who hunted her. And because of who Deegan was and what he’d done in his checkered past, he couldn’t tell the coppers, either.
Not that it would make a difference if he did. Impressions didn’t count when it came to proving a crime had been committed.
Lilly had spirit now, but Deegan doubted anyone, man or woman, could continue to hold their head high when adversity continually knocked them flat in the muddy streets. He certainly hadn’t been able to handle it. He’d lied, stolen and run to escape such a fate himself.
Or thought he’d escaped it. Some days, in spite of his good fortune in falling in with Garrett Blackhawk and subsequently gaining his current nondemanding, well-paid employment, Deegan doubted the shadow of the Coast had ever left him. He’d been born there, his father an unknown patron of his mother’s open-for-business bed. Deegan’s knack for mimicry might let him blend in with a better strata of society, but underneath it all he was still Bridget Murphy’s bastard son.
It had been the Barbary Coast as much as his mother’s occupation that had robbed him of his childhood. At four he stole his first watch. By eight he’d been a fairly accomplished pickpocket. It was in his blood to be a liar and a thief, not a gentleman.
Despite that, he had a full social schedule that allowed him to rub shoulders with the city’s most prominent families. The goddess of fortune was indeed fickle.
Deegan checked his pocket watch. He had been foolish to give in to the temptation to tread these streets again. But if he hadn’t been there today, what would have become of the wren?
He knew what would have become of her, and the thought alone chilled his blood.
“Mr. Galloway?”
He liked the prim quality of her voice. She was miffed at him and made no effort to hide her dissatisfaction.
“Are you or are you not going to guide me to the nearest police station now?” Lilly demanded.
“I would rather not,” he said, allowing her one of his rare, truly honest moments.
“But you know that—”
“You haven’t considered the situation sufficiently, Miss Renfrew,” Deegan cautioned. “You are still a hunted woman. Where exactly do you think that b’hoy will expect you to head?”
“Oh,” she said, her flare of indignation snuffed as quickly as a candle flame. “But I need to speak with the authorities.”
“And you will one day soon,” he countered.
She stared at him quietly for the space of a heartbeat, her lovely pastel eyes looking through him. Then Lilly’s chin raised infinitesimally, an indication, he was sure, that she had decided to grab the bull by the horns. She was such an innocent. She had no idea how sharp those horns could be. Having been figuratively gored more times than he cared to recall, Deegan knew only too well the danger she was determined to flout.
And because his conscience would haunt him if he stood aside and let her, he would soon be dodging danger again himself.
Which was exactly what he had come to the Coast that day to do. Was that why he found her uncommonly attractive? Or was it something else that drew him, that had him so determined to be her champion?
Lilly stood a bit straighter, as if determination alone could turn her into an Amazon equal to whatever was to come. Perhaps it could. The flame of righteousness