EILEEN

JANUARY 1968

I had ten days before I was due back to Laurel Hill, and I manage to sneak away and meet Declan for six of them, mostly because Granddad was distracted by business. Sneaking out through the kitchen after Bridey leaves and the supper dishes are put away is a breeze. Some days Granddad stays closeted in his office, with men coming and going, not even coming out for meals. Sometimes when I am sneaking back, there is still light seeping beneath the door between the office and the keeping room. Luckily, Granddad is a bit hard of hearing, and between my ballet lessons and a bribe for the dogs, I can make my way through the house without a sound. The sneaking around eats at me a little, but when I'm with Declan, I'm a different person. I think I like her.

I can't put my finger on any one thing, but he makes me feel safe and comfortable, almost fearless. By our third date, I felt as though I had known him forever. It isn't just his charm or manners. He is open and brash and funny. I can't help but get caught up in his energy and good cheer. He is quick with a joke or story about his brothers. He makes a point of sharing how he spends his time when we aren't together and makes me feel like part of his day at the shipping company.

With him, I am Ellie, not Carraig's granddaughter, not Cecily's daughter, not the bearer of the Claiomh Solias. Set free of those burdens, I feel more confident in speaking my mind. I feel that my ideas and opinions are important and valued, especially when we don't agree. He treats me like an adult, not like a student. We discuss and debate serious, real-world topics like war and poverty and power. No poetry or abstract "ideas" for Declan. He is all about action. About planning and strategies. He doesn't censor himself around me and never hides his ambition. Nothing is black and white with him—he sees all of the shades of gray and the opportunity that lives in those shadows. The way he loves to put his toes right at the edge of the cliff, daring it to crumble beneath him, is exciting—and a little bit scary.

One night we got into a rip-roaring argument about war—Vietnam specifically. I agreed with Dr. King and didn't think we should be there at all. Declan felt we needed to straighten out the mess we had made. Moreover, he believed that the war provided an opportunity for a poor man to reinvent himself through serving in the armed forces. After all, World War I opened a world of opportunities for his great-grandfather and look at what he made of himself. Dec was also upset that he wasn't able to accompany his friends and serve. Apparently, his family had a tradition of military service, and a heart murmur rendered him unfit to serve. It was a sore spot with him, and the way he talked, I had the impression his brothers picked at it. We went round and round that night, and passions ran high.

I'll never understand what it is with men. They all want to put on uniforms and fight one another until they break something that can't be fixed. Why can't we resolve everything with the peaceful protest like Reverend King advocates?

But make no mistake, our dates aren't all current affairs and high-minded debate. We race around the countryside in his little green roadster, making the rounds to pubs in the surrounding villages while laughing and flirting. Dancing the night away. Parking on a little country lane and kissing for hours. The smell of leather and gasoline will always remind me of the nights we spend exploring one another in that little car.

There's nothing dreamy about being with Declan though. He more than just occupies space; he commands it. And he commands people just as easily, with his open manner and way with a story. Everything about him is bright. His dazzling smile. The copper hair, full of cowlicks, that curls over his collar just so. And that easygoing charm that's the best parts of his Irish and American soul. He's the sun, and people love to be in his orbit. Even his kisses crackle with a crazy energy that draws me to him every time we're together.

The week after New Year's, we have an unseasonably warm spell. They call it "sweater weather," and it is. One night, instead of a quick drive to a nearby village, we take the Inter Urban toward Galway, the top down, our way lit by a full moon. A few miles past the village, Declan turns off the highway at a scenic lookout.

We park, and Declan unloads a picnic basket and blankets from the boot of the car before giving me a hand out of the car like a princess from a carriage. I have to admit, I am a little uneasy as he leads me through the thicket of trees. If it weren't for the moonlight streaming through, it would be creepy. That, and Declan's free arm wrapped tightly around my waist, make it one of the most romantic settings I can imagine. I love the way we fit together—like pieces of the puzzle; I come up to his chin and fit perfectly into the crook of his arm. Truth be told, being in the shelter of Declan's arms has quickly become my favorite place to be. I'm thinking just how quickly that happened as the trees thin out.

"So what do you think?' Declan gestures as expansively as he can, given the arm full of blankets and basket, to the stunning view that unfolds.

The bluff overlooks the entire valley. Granddad's village and farm are reduced to fairy lights glittering in the distance. The river twists through the valley, glowing quicksilver, and the landscape is rendered a ghostly green-gray by the moonlight.

"It's not as beautiful as the company I'm keeping, but it's a pretty enough spot to spend the evening with my best girl, gazing at the stars." His sea blue eyes fix on me expectantly, the moonlight giving them a silver gleam.

"Declan, it's amazing."

The ghost of a sigh escapes his full and kissable lips, as if my supremely confident Declan has had a moment of doubt. He's already making me feel very proprietary. I won’t lose out to the likes of Maeve Kilkenny again.

"I rather thought so. I spotted it on one of my drives from Galway, and I couldn't wait to share it with you. Though I had no idea that Mother Nature would cooperate so spectacularly."

He spreads one of the thick wool blankets on a level area of dead grass between a tree and the end of the bluff, then drops the other two on top of it, the picnic basket within arm's reach. He sprawls on a blanket, pulling me onto him in a jumble of limbs, laughing with his whole body. It is infectious and I giggle along with him, his rumble of a laugh vibrating through my body and making me feel joyous and sexy. I am finally, fully, and truly alive, a feeling I want to memorize and hoard like a treasure.

Declan's laugh trails away, and he settles me across from him as he roots in the basket. "Does a Thermos of chocolate and some cake sound good? After all, I haven't had a chance to take you on a proper dinner date and you're going back to school in a day or two. At the very least I can treat you to dessert. I think we have the dancing covered already." He pulls out mugs, layer cake smothered in frosting and filled with strawberry jam, and a Thermos before setting our places as precisely as a Brookline matron and pouring the steaming chocolate into the mugs. I reach for a fork, and Declan smacks my hand away. "I'm in charge tonight."

He spears a forkful of cake and holds it to my mouth, teasingly painting my lips with sweet buttercream frosting before allowing me my first taste. He steals a kiss—and the frosting—before I get a chance to lick my lips. It quickly becomes a game, with Declan encouraging me to kiss the sweetness from his lips and stealing it from mine. Before long, Declan's idea of dessert and the way he gently takes over even more intoxicates me. He's so focused on me—it's exhilarating and scary all at once.

The cake and chocolate are soon gone, and Dec gathers me close to him, settling me between his outstretched legs, my back to his chest, those sinewy, strong arms wrapped around me. He rests his chin on my shoulder, the clean scent of the sea and soap surround me, as his voice purrs in my ear. "Look up and to the right. You can't see the rings without a telescope, but that's Saturn—named after one of my favorite myths."

Our cheeks brush, rough against smooth, as he tilts my chin to direct my gaze, the heat of his calloused fingers blooming along my jaw and creeping down my neck.

"The god of time?" Declan's attraction to the myths of Father Time puzzles me. He's all about the here and now.

"That's the myth most people are familiar with, but what they forget is that he was the two-faced god. Changeable. People couldn't be quite sure where they stood with him. He was never quite what he seemed to be. Most took him for a bad guy, but he was also the god of agriculture and plenty. And liberation. And his festival was the inspiration for our new year's celebrations. All good things. Unless you're on the losing side of the liberation."

"I never would've taken you to be into something as impractical as myths and magic. You seem like a nonfiction kind of guy."

"There's nothing impractical about knowing the stories that rulers use to control their civilizations. The stories of the Greek gods and the Irish fae are no different than the stories of the Bible. And the way ancient rulers used those stories to control their people is no different from how the Vatican uses the stories of the Bible to control people today." He leans into the trunk of the tree beside us, lounging with me resting against his chest. "But no more talks about power, philosophy, and myths tonight. Tonight is about you, the moon, and romance."

He nuzzles my neck, signaling that the conversation is over. The rasp of his five o'clock shadow, which really isn't a shadow thanks to his white-blond beard, makes me purr like a contented tabby cat. His nuzzle turns to sucking at my neck, sending warmth spreading through my chest like a blooming flower, punctuated by nips up and down my jugular vein and chased by a flick of his soothing tongue. My pulse quickens as though it is trying to beat through my skin—eager for direct contact with Dec's teasing mouth. His ministrations send a charge traveling my veins and he's the power source. My soft pants grow heavier and faster until I wrench away from him—so I can deepen our contact with the kiss. Suddenly, I'm the aggressor and I like it.

Dec loosens his arms around me as he links his ankles inside mine, spreading me open as he chases my curious tongue with his. His hand brushes first against my knee then up the inside of my thigh—back and forth, back and forth. He is mimicking the rhythm of his hand in our kiss. It is hypnotic. And the sensations change from an electric buzz to a slow-blooming heat that flood my body before pooling in my breasts and my hips, settling in the juncture of my thighs like the tide creeping in.

Dec's hand sweeps higher with each stroke, finally brushing the edge of my panties as his other hand creeps beneath my blouse and over my breast, hesitating for a moment. "Should I keep going? It's all about you tonight. Tell me what you want. We can stop right now."

His leg slides off of mine as I notice a rough sincerity in his eyes that I hadn't noticed before. I know in that second that if I told him to stop, he would. But I don't want that. Not at all. I want to explore with him. "Please, don't stop. Teach me. Don't stop kissing me."

His eyes widen as I stop the retreat of his ankle, intertwining our legs again. He palms my breast, the pressure making my nipple tighten even more, and with that, he attacks my mouth like a starving man. Before I know it, he has my legs spread even wider, the breeze tickling my thigh as he rips my flower-bedecked cotton panties at the crotch in his eagerness to get at my core. He has them bunched up in the waistband of my skirt with a quick motion. My legs spread open even wider in response to his touch—sure and gentle yet insistent. His index finger traces a path up and down and around, through my wet slit, and swirls around that sensitive little button at the top. Frustratingly, he won't touch it and won't even let me squirm to create contact, the weight of his legs keeping mine still.

"Patience, my sweet Ellie. It'll be all worth it."

He circles my nipple in tandem with that oh-so-tender nub, weaving this trance of sensation and heat that leaves me breathless. With each pass, he dips his finger into me, gathering the wetness before he trails it back up and around, insinuating himself in a little farther each time as he strokes my breast through the roughness of the lace. I get wetter, almost drunk on the layers of sensation. The heat and wetness of our gradual joining. The coolness of the breeze on my bare skin.

It becomes harder and harder for me to catch my breath as his rhythm picks up. The sensations gather in my breasts and thighs like storm clouds over the sound in summer, threatening fury as they boil. Finally, my breast pops out of my bra and perches on its own little balcony. My nipples feel prickly and alive. Sensitive. The rasp of my cotton blouse against my rock-hard nipple is an entirely different sensation from the lace. Each movement of cloth against skin sends more heat pooling between my thighs. The shock of Declan's pinch to my nipple ripples through my body, coming to a halt as he burrows between my thighs with two fingers, setting off a gush of moisture.

Oh Lord, I hope he doesn't notice. Why am I so wet? Did I… It's never been like this. Not when I've touched myself or the last time—I stop myself at the thought. This is about Dec and me—the ghost of my mistake has no business here.

"You like that," he croons, playing in my wetness. The squish squish as he works his finger into me makes me wince with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry. There's something wrong." I try to squirm away.

Dec freezes, clearly panicked. "You're so tight. Did I hurt you? Is it too rough?"

"No. No. No. It's not you. I'm so wet and messy. I didn't mean to … you don't have to keep going." I'm so mortified, I can't look at him.

Understanding flashes across his face. "That. You didn't… that's how your body reacts. Of course the nuns wouldn't explain it to you." He shakes his head, and his fingers resume their path. "Relax. Your body is responding to the way it's being touched." His voice has a soothing, sing-song lilt as his finger slides back and forth, back and forth. "The moisture makes the friction between us a source of pleasure, not pain. Humans are designed to enjoy sex—don't let the church tell you it's anything other than a gift. Close your eyes and feel."

My embarrassment melts away as Dec murmurs endearments in my ear. The speed of his fingers increases, and the heat and pressure grow again. My pussy throbs in time to the stroke of his fingers. He kisses me again, hard and deep this time, his thrusting tongue a counterpoint to his fingers. My body is like a water balloon. The tension has a heat and weight all its own, expanding against my skin, as it tightens in its struggle to contain the throbbing heat. Dec brushes his thumb against my clit. Once. Twice. The third time, he lingers, rolling and stretching my clit as the tension in my body breaks free and the heat trembles through my body from the spot where we are joined, his fingers at my pulsing core. I wail, the sound guttural and feral.

"Let it go, Ellie. You are so goddamned beautiful. I’m so lucky. Just feel. I have you."

He brushes my temple with a soft kiss, and the energy unfurls through my body, and we relax. As I come back to earth, I can feel the pounding of Dec's heart where our bodies meet—chest to back, cock to ass. He has as much energy pent up as I just let go. I take advantage of the moment and roll free of his grasp, onto my knees. I want to give him the same relief he gave me.

I manage to unbuckle his belt and get the zipper halfway down before he stops me. "DON'T."

I jerk away like a skittish kitten. I've already screwed this up. "I just want to make you feel good too. I'm sorry." The threat of tears colors my voice.

Dec tips up my chin and kisses me sweetly. He heard them too. "There's nothing to apologize for. Our first time is not going to involve you kneeling at my feet, a blanket the only thing between you and dirt. You are better than that. If you let me, I will treasure and cherish and protect you. It's the least that you deserve, my love."

I hesitate, trying to process all that he had said. Had I heard him right?

"Eileen. Come here." Declan's voice is sure and gentle as he takes my hand and gathers me to his chest.

I settle on his lap, content as a kitten and happy to enjoy the quiet. I let myself be lulled by the steady thump of his heart, the heat of his breath tickling my ear, his wool sweater soft and prickly against my cheek. It hits me all at once—the ache almost physical—that Declan isn't a distraction from my hurt feelings. He kindled an entirely new set of feelings that purged the loss and regret. Feelings that are primitive and powerful and I don't entirely understand. I'm not about to let him go before I do.

"I have to leave tomorrow but I suppose it doesn't really matter since you'll be busy you've got your job I'll be going back to school I really don't want this to end I'm getting to know you." It all comes out in a rush as I trace random patterns on his bicep. I can't meet his eye, but I hope and pray that he has a solution for the problem my return to school creates and, more importantly, that my leaving is a problem for him too. Surely he has some sort of solution. Well, hopefully he wants to find a solution.

"You're at Laurel Hill? That's near Limerick, right? That's exactly where I've been staying—halfway between Galway and here. It's actually convenient for me, since the business I do for my father is scattered from here to the coast for now. Are you ever allowed to come into town?"

My heart skips a beat. Maybe this isn't a fling for him, and the gears in my head turn. "Well, graduating seniors are allowed to go into town on Saturdays and run errands. The girls usually take the bus from the convent into the town square after morning mass, and as long as we're back by five, there's never an issue." I usually just go to town to use the central library to read the latest banned novel. Most of the other girls have beaus in town. So much for "errands."

Declan hugs me a little tighter. "What do you think about meeting near the bus stop in the square and I'll take you to lunch on Saturdays? Would your classmates cause a problem for you?" He means would they rat me out.

"I highly doubt it. Colleen sneaks away to see her secret fiancé, and Mary Elizabeth and Mary Catherine are always in favor of having a little fun. I don't think any of my friends would tattle." They'll probably be relieved—I'm sure they think I'm the goody-two-shoes weak link.

I tilt my head, finding the sincerity I yearn for in the planes and angle of a face belonging to a man I barely know. A face I have already memorized. His sea-blue eyes sparkle, and both of his dimples have come out to play.

"Well, that's settled. We have a standing date for Saturday." He seals his declaration with a warm, lingering kiss.

I feel like a queen rewarding a gallant knight. In that moment, I know he feels something too. I'm surprised at just how much that means to me.

The silence of the night is punctuated by the hoot of a nearby owl and the twinkle of the stars against the velvety sky. We feel connected in that moment. I revel in Declan's warmth, his languid caress making me feel protected and desired.

Declan finally stirs when the moon is high in the sky, our perch bathed in a magical glow. "I better get you home. It's well past midnight, and you have a big day tomorrow."

A glance at my watch tells me that being able to tell time by the night sky is just another thing on the long list of Declan Drazen’s unexpected talents.

The ride home is more of the same—comfortable silence and intimate, innocent connection. I am dozing, floating in a dreamy replay of our earlier encounter, all snuggly with my head on his shoulder and hand in his, when his downshifting nudges me awake. We pull off the highway and down the lane and, to my horror, come to a stop at my grandfather's gate, not the O'Donnell's.

Rather than trying to bluff my way out of it, I just come clean. "I'm sorry for the charade. How did you know?"

"That first night I dropped you off, I waited for a sign that you’d gotten in safely. The longer it took, the more concerned I was—until that attic window lit up." He pointed at my garret hideaway. "It lit up every night after that."

"But you didn't say anything? You're not mad?" I'm contrite and a bit puzzled.

"I figured you had your reasons. I was hoping you would've told me by now…" He takes both of my hands, turning as much as he can in the tiny car.

"It's just so hard. You were the first person I've met here who didn't know me as a McGilbride or a Boston McInerney, with all of the baggage that entails. I'm just Eileen to you. Sometimes it feels like people don't see me—they see the ghosts of the warriors and saints from a past I barely know or the sins of a father I barely see. Even the Sisters do it sometimes. The weight of expectation in their gaze can be crushing, you know, and it's even worse when people think of me as a path to Granddad. I'm just a high school girl who loves her family's farm. When I recognized you, I wanted to keep that look from crossing your face as long as I could. Or worse." I feel myself blushing with my admission. "I really like you, Declan Drazen."

"Recognized me?" A glimmer of something—is it worry or something else?—crosses his face.

"I don't know if you can call it 'recognize,' but I finally realized I had seen you with my granddad at the farm one day last summer when I was coming back from riding. Actually, it was more of an impression of you. The way you carried yourself. The light on your hair. The respect you and Granddad had for each other. The image stayed with me. I suppose it's why I never wondered whether I could trust you. My subconscious knew already. I feel like I've deceived you out of selfishness, and you don't deserve that. I'm so sorry." I touch his face and am rewarded by not only seeing but feeling the smile cross his face. It's magical.

"Don't be. I get it. I've felt that way about my family too. People judging you without knowing you, assuming you're a certain way because of who your family is. That's why I'm so glad to be out of LA." He kisses me with authority. The conversation is over. There's nothing to resolve. "I'll meet you at the post office off the square Saturday. I don't expect that the FJC Sisters let you sleep in, so weekend mass should be over by eight? I should expect you about nine? Now go dream about me. I'll wait until your light goes on."

I kiss him sweetly, memorizing every sensation, knowing I will need it to get me through the week.

Once inside, I peer out of my window before I turn on the light, and the knowledge that he is looking up, waiting for a sign from me, strikes a romantic chord in my giddy, girlish heart. I watch him drive off and don't step away from the glass until his tail lights finally disappear. It was the best night ever, creating the sort of happiness that's fizzy and ticklish and explosive. So rather than toss and turn, I pull out my journal and pour out my heart.

So this beautiful man with copper hair came to my rescue the other day. Is there such thing as knights in shining armor in 1968? I think so. And here's why…