Toward the Sea of Freedom Read Free

father’s land in the evening.
    Michael was sitting astride a lower branch of the friendly willow when Kathleen arrived. His eyes lit up at the sight of her, and he swiftly and gracefully stood to greet her.
    “The sweetest girl in Ireland—and she belongs to me alone,” he said with admiration in his soft voice. “People praise the Irish rose, but only he who knows the lilies can measure what beauty is.”
    Kathleen blushed and lowered her gaze, but Michael reached for her hands and kissed them. Then he brought them to his heart, pulling the girl closer. Softly, he kissed her forehead and waited until she finally offered him her lips. He gently wrapped his arms around her.
    “Careful,” she whispered nervously. “I . . . I brought something with me, and I don’t want you to crush it.”
    Before Michael could press her to him, she pulled the scones and jar of marmalade out of her dress pockets. The young man, ravenous after working hard from sunup to sundown, eyed them covetously. But Michael Drury was not greedy. He took his time with enjoyments of every sort and, for the time being, deposited the delicacies on a large leaf in a fork in the willow. Then he continued kissing Kathleen, slowly and tenderly.
    Kathleen did not understand the whispering of the other girls, some of whom were already engaged and fearing their wedding nights. Michael, she firmly believed, would never hurt her. Even now, she lost herself for a short time in his embrace, his earthy scent of work in the field, and his cool skin, on which his sweat was already dry.
    But then Michael freed himself. He stared at the stolen scones. “They smell good,” he sighed.
    She smiled and was suddenly no longer so hungry.
    “You smell good,” she whispered.
    Michael shook his head, laughing. “Far from it, dearest. I stink. And I think I ought to wash before you invite me to have tea like a gentleman.”
    Before Kathleen could protest, Michael had already thrown off his simple, dirty shirt. Kathleen tried to look away as he slipped out of his faded pants as well, but she did not manage it. The sight of his powerful legs, his flat stomach, and his muscular arms pleased her. Michael was slim, but he did not look half-starved like many other tenants. Playing fiddle in Wicklow seemed to have its benefits. Kathleen would all too gladly have accompanied him into the tavern sometime.
    She laughed and crouched on the beach as Michael slid into the water with a splash. He dived under to wash his hair and face and then swam like a fish to the middle of the river.
    “Why don’t you join me? It’s wonderfully cool,” Michael called to her.
    But Kathleen shook her head. It was too terrible to think about what would happen if someone saw Mary Kathleen O’Donnell swimming naked or even half naked—and not in the girls’ sanctioned bathing spot but here, with a man, during the full moon and outside the village.
    “Get out of there before I eat these scones myself,” she teased him.
    Michael obeyed her immediately and swam to shore. He shook the water out of his thick hair and slicked it off his body, pulled his pants back on, and sat down next to her on the rocky beach. Kathleen handed him his pastry and the jar of marmalade, into which she had just placed her finger to scrape out a bit of what was left. She spread it on her scone and took a tiny bite. It was the best thing she had ever eaten. The orange jam was sweet but also slightly bitter. The scone melted on her tongue.
    Kathleen looked tenderly at Michael, who was eating with similar devotion.
    “Gifted or stolen?” he asked.
    Kathleen turned red again. “They were, that is, hmm, left over,” she murmured.
    Michael kissed her lips, and he tasted of orange.
    “So, you filched them,” he teased. “That makes them all the sweeter. But what will Father O’Brien say about it?”
    “Maybe I won’t even confess it,” Kathleen said. She knew that Michael did not take confession too