A few steps above him, she whirled about, hands on hips. “You didn’t just happen along, Morrison. You were following me.”
He thought of trying to deny it, but he saw the absurdity of such a course. In a swirl of skirts, Rory vanished up the steps. By the time he caught up with her, she had flounced down upon the platform bench, her arms crossed over her chest in a most forbidding fashion. With a heavy sigh, Zeke sank down beside her, grimacing at the pain in his side. He hoped he hadn’t managed to crack his ribs again. Rory scooted farther down until she was almost falling off the edge of the bench.
“I did follow you,” Zeke admitted. “I still had the business card you gave me and came out to have a look at your warehouse. I never thought I’d be lucky enough to find you here, but I caught a glimpse of you passing by one of the windows. I decided I’d just wait until you left and see where you went.”
“You put yourself to a great deal of bother, Mr. Morrison.”
“I wanted to find out where you lived and after the way we parted this morning, I was afraid you wouldn’t tell me.”
“You were quite right.”
When he draped his arm along the back of the bench, she sprang up like a scalded cat.
“Please, Rory,” he coaxed. “I only wanted to see you again, just talk to you.”
She gave a small sniff. “I suppose you want to tell me some blather about how sorry you are, how much you regret that outrageous proposal you made me.”
“I am sorry,” Zeke began contritely enough, but was unable to repress his grin, no matter how much his jaw ached. “I am sorry you wouldn’t accept it.”
Rory expelled her breath in a furious hiss. “You are impossible! I’d hit you myself if you weren’t already so black and blue. Now if you will excuse me, I have a train to catch.”
“What? Are you just going to leave me like this to collapse on the platform?”
“I see no danger of that. I am sure someone as clever as you will have no difficulty finding your way home.”
“Well if that is the way you feel—” he started to say, then doubled over, emitting a groan that was only half-faked.
He had at least caught Rory’s attention. She shot him a look of contempt. But when he slumped down on the bench, clutching at his forehead, the hardness of her expression wavered.
“Oh, stop that,” she ordered, but her voice was laced with uncertainty. She inched closer. “I know you weren’t hurt that bad. Nothing could dent that thick skull of yours.”
“No, of course not.” Zeke moaned. “Don’t concern yourself. Just a few broken ribs, I guess. A little concussion. I doubt I’ll black out before someone else comes along.”
“Morrison, if you are faking—” She hurried over and bent down to peer at him. He permitted a spasm of pain to wrack his features.
“Zeke?” She placed one hand tentatively on his shoulder. “Oh, the devil! The train’s coming. Come on. I’ll help you. Are you dizzy? Lean on me.”
With a heroic nod, he struggled to his feet, only too willing to encircle the softness of her shoulders, burdening her with just enough of his weight to be convincing without crushing her.
As she helped him toward the tracks, he gazed down at the fine strands of her hair tossed into that gypsy-wild tangle that was already becoming so familiar to him. His mouth curved into a tender smile, a smile he was quick to erase when she chanced to glance up at him.
Although she regarded him with suspicion, she made no effort to draw away. The El clattered forward in an ear-shattering rumble, the whistle blasting as the train hissed to a halt in a cloud of acrid steam and sparks.
A few passengers disembarked as he and Rory eased their way through the narrow door. Zeke sank down onto the nearest empty seat, Rory nearly lurching on top of him as the train jerked into movement once more. In another few seconds they were lumbering off through the night.
Zeke supposed he must look as disreputable as a tomcat that had strayed down one alley too many. Besides the bruises swelling his cheek, his Chesterfield coat was torn and blood-stained. But he drew only a few curious glances from the other passengers. For the most part, New Yorkers tended to mind their own business. Rory drew a plain linen handkerchief from her pocket and wrapped up his bleeding knuckles. Something in her manner of brisk efficiency told him this wasn’t the first time she had tended the wounds of a man after a bout of fisticuffs.
Mrs. Van H. would have taken one look at him, given a shudder of distaste and ordered him to return when he appeared more like a gentleman. But Rory did not seem in the least shocked by his condition or the fight she had just witnessed.
She said with grudging admiration, “You handled yourself real well back there. I guess you didn’t need my help. Not at all what I would have expected from a Fifth Avenue swell.”
“Swells don’t last long in this part of town,” he returned dryly.
His remark caused her to glance sharply up at him, but she made no comment as she finished knotting the handkerchief. “There. That’s the best I can do until I get you home.”
Home— that had a nice sound to it, Zeke thought, resting his head back against the seat. He had to admit he had had his doubts earlier when he had been tearing along in that hansom cab, Rory’s card clutched in his fist.
Even then he hadn’t been sure what madness had come over him, setting out in pursuit of a woman who had already rejected him once. But now that he had seen Rory again, he understood. It was indeed a madness, but of the sweetest kind.
