Free Irish Lady by Jeanette Baker

confidence, Meghann’s nails were bitten down to the pink as she waited in a small rental car off Grosvenor Street. It was past midnight and they were already fifteen minutes late. What could have gone wrong?
    Miles French had asked an enormous amount of questions which Meghann had answered, for the most part honestly. But it wasn’t until she explained that this case would hold no résumé-building rewards for anyone if the defendant died, that Miles agreed to authorize Michael’s transfer to Victoria Hospital. The medical staff had grown accustomed to the frequent visits of Michael’s defense team. If Mr. French looked a bit more stooped than he had the day before and if Mr. Bennett, his assistant, walked a bit more slowly, these inconsistencies were explained away as natural side effects of exhaustion. The poor men really had an impossible case.
    Two dark shapes rounded the corner. Meghann sat up, her hand settling on the key in the ignition. She didn’t turn it until the car door opened and an emaciated Michael was thrust into the passenger seat.
    â€œHurry,” a raspy voice insisted. “I don’t know how long you have.”
    Meghann didn’t recognize the man in the black jacket, but she knew he was IRA and her heart sank. “What happened?”
    He slammed the door and thrust his face through the window. “Let’s just say that everything didn’t go according t’ plan. A nosy nurse is trussed up in the linen room. Go along now.”
    Meghann was terrified. Had the entire city been alerted? Were British tanks already positioning themselves at the checkpoints? She stared at the ravaged being seated beside her. His eyes, now closed, seemed to float beneath their lids in overly large sockets. The shirt, purchased specifically for Connor’s solid proportions and buttoned to the top, stood a good two inches from Michael’s throat. Could this living carcass really be Michael Devlin? He was close to death. What in the name of heaven had she done? How could she possibly take care of him?
    Forcing herself to behave rationally, Meghann eased out onto Grosvenor Road and looked for highway signs. She was past Donegall Square near the turnoff to the West-Link when Michael spoke for the first time.
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œTo Donegal.” Meghann recognized the exit to the M1 and turned the car to the right.
    â€œThe Republic or the North?”
    The headlights reflecting in her rearview mirror were blinding. She turned the mirror up. “Republic,” she answered shortly.
    â€œBad choice, Meggie. There are guards at the borders.”
    â€œBernadette arranged it. We’re staying in a cottage near the River Eske.” She bit her lip. It would do no good to worry him. “I’ll handle the guards.”
    â€œI’m sure y’ will,” he said softly, leaning back against the headrest. “Wake me when it’s over.”

Five
    Meghann never knew what made her turn north toward Tyrone instead of taking the more direct route through Armagh. It wasn’t as if she had missed the signs or even made a conscious decision. She just found herself there, traveling through the beautiful sheep country of what had once been the last Catholic kingdom of Ulster. She took comfort in that and in the knowledge that anyone following Michael would assume he was headed south toward the Republic.
    Cautiously, she reached out her hand to touch his forehead. His temperature felt normal and his chest moved in and out, a testimony to the strength of the life force within him. How could anyone so thin still breathe? He stirred, and she moved her hand back to the wheel. It was almost time to pull over and wait for a decent time to pass through the border checkpoint. A solitary car with a woman driver and a half-starved man attempting to cross over into the Republic at three o’clock in the morning would be like waving the tricolor in front