Wicked. Beth Henderson

      Chapter Two

      The image of Belle Tauber’s murderer’s face burned in Lilly’s mind, blinding her to all else. He had looked up, seen her watching in the shadows, and then…

      Everything she had done since that frightening moment was a blur. She had no idea where her panicked flight had led her, only that the strong arm now encircling her was warm and comforting, as was the calm, sensible tone of her unknown rescuer’s voice.

      She began questioning the wisdom of running trustingly into his care when he deftly tipped her off her feet, silencing her natural yelp of alarm by clasping his hand gently over her lips.

      “Shh,” he ordered, his tone light.

      The lilt in his voice made him sound amused, a reaction so foreign to her own that Lilly found herself gawking at him.

      “Good girl,” he murmured, lowering her, and the awkward bulk of her camera, to the ground behind a rickety pile of shipping crates.

      Fear alone kept her quiet. She knew Belle’s assailant had seen her. If he hadn’t been temporarily hobbled with the dead prostitute’s body, he would have caught up with her. As it was, she had heard the quick staccato of his running footsteps following almost before she was out of the alley.

      Mere seconds had passed since then, and here she was in yet another alley, prone, breathless and more frightened than she had ever been before in her life. Only this man with the lilting voice stood between her and certain death.

      Leaning casually back against the grimy brick building across from her refuge, the man ignored her presence and took the makings of a cigarette from the inner pocket of his coat.

      A heartbeat later, Belle’s murderer skidded to a halt in the mouth of the alleyway. It would take only the edge of her skirt, the toe of her shoe, the end of a tripod leg left in view to tip him off to her present location. There hadn’t been enough time to guarantee that she was completely hidden. Peering between the packing crates, she had an excellent view of her stalker. Far too excellent. If she hadn’t recalled each of his features in detail already, they were certainly imprinted on her mind now as harsh, lean and dangerous.

      Lilly’s rescuer barely glanced up at Belle’s murderer before returning to his occupation, creasing a tobacco paper with finicky care.

      “Hey,” the killer called, turning away from Lilly’s blind to face the loitering man. “You see a woman run this way?”

      “A woman, is it?” her rescuer asked, his voice thickened with an Irish brogue. “And would she be a pretty one?”

      The killer’s eyebrows closed over the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Hell,” he spat, and glanced both ways along the outer street before peering deep into the dimness of the alleyway.

      Lilly resisted the inclination to shrink back, fearing any movement on her part would draw his attention. With his eyes burning with fury, it was quite easy to believe him one of Satan’s soldiers sent to claim her soul.

      “She had on dark-colored clothing,” he said, “and was probably carrying an unwieldy contraption of some kind. If she wasn’t running, she’d be breathing heavily.”

      “Ah,” the Irishman sighed appreciatively. “That’s just the way I like a woman—breathing heavily.” He tapped tobacco into the prepared paper. “But runnin’ now—perhaps if you treated the sweet lass better she might stay put, b’hoy.”

      “Did you or didn’t you see her, Paddy?” the lanky man snapped.

      Unfazed by the other’s impatience, Lilly’s rescuer licked the edge of his cigarette paper to seal his smoke. “Sadly, no,” he said.

      The killer exhaled a word in frustration, the crudeness of it causing Lilly’s cheeks to flush brightly. She breathed a sigh of relief a moment later when he stalked off.

      “Careful,” the Irishman cautioned as she stirred. He struck a match against the side of the building, then bent his head and cupped his hands around his cigarette as he lit it. “He’s still on the street looking for you,” he said between puffs, his voice low and stripped of the distinctive brogue. “I’ll let you know when the coast is clear. For now why not stop holding your breath and breathe again, darlin’.”

      “Thank you,” Lilly whispered.

      “De nada,” he said.

      The softly spoken Spanish phrase was soothing, although he’d tossed it off lightly. Relaxing slightly, Lilly studied him as he blew a set of perfect smoke rings. His stance, as well as the unconcerned expression he wore, made him appear as if he hadn’t a care in the world. She envied him that.

      As befit an angel of deliverance, he was an extremely good-looking man, his features masculine but with a cast that was more pleasant than rugged. Even in repose he looked like a man who smiled often. His hair was as tawny as a lion’s coat and was cut neatly, which meant that, despite the rough look of his clothing, he was a newcomer to this part of the city. In the weeks she’d been visiting the Barbary Coast, Lilly had become quite accustomed to the unkempt appearance of the men she saw. Although she suspected there were those of the upper echelon who frequented the area, they were rarely seen during the afternoon hours when she was there. Outside of Reverend Isham, whom she had seen from a distance preaching on the street, the only well-groomed men were professional gamblers, and their neat clothing was frequently shiny with use.

      This man was different. Not only were his clothes neatly mended, they looked too clean to have been in his possession long, the wrinkles acquired from careless folding rather than wearing. He had probably bought them in one of the many used clothing shops near the wharves.

      His scuffed boots and battered felt hat were different, having the distinctive appearance of items worn by a single person over a period of time. Particularly the hat. There was personality in the hand-shaped curve of the wide brim as it rode low over his eyes, shadowing his face from closer observation. Thick, dundreary whiskers and a mustache, a deeper shade than his fair hair, masked his lower face, allowing little but the quirky set of his mouth to be seen.

      Although she couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, Lilly thought them dark and ever alert. Despite the angle of his hat, she saw that his eyes followed the movements of Belle’s killer as he combed the street for news of the runaway witness to his crime. The fact that the man’s movements were under her rescuer’s calm gaze was as comforting as a cup of sweet, hot tea. Lilly felt her racing heart settle to a more normal pace.

      “Uncommonly fond lover you’ve got there, sweetheart,” the Irishman murmured.

      “Lover!” Lilly gasped.

      “Shh. The bloke’ll hear your dulcet tones for sure,” he said.

      “He’s not my lover,” Lilly whispered hotly. “He’s a killer.”

      The man drew on his cigarette. “I don’t doubt it.” He didn’t sound convinced, though.

      “I saw him murder a girl,” Lilly said.

      “Indeed? Then you’d better shush or you won’t be any luckier than she, darlin’. He’s comin’ back this way,” the man cautioned.

      Lilly froze for what felt like an eternity. The sounds of carts and horses mixed with the varied footfalls of passersby, the traffic making the earth beneath her cheek tremble slightly. Out of the sun, the January air was cooler, almost biting, and definitely uncomfortable. Lilly wished she’d worn warmer clothing, or added her chesterfield rather than leave it behind. As time dragged on she discovered further discomforts—she was lying on her bulky satchel of plate holders and was clutching the box of her camera so tightly that one particularly sharp corner