A chilly January evening in the Cotswolds, present day
The moon was bright enough to illuminate the highway that passed in front of the old, stately country manor. It certainly was imposing, and the lithe young woman felt small as she reached the gate between the stone walls that encircled the house. No lights shone in the windows of the Tudor-style mansion, and its spires were dark against the blue-black of the night sky. The wind whipped around her pale face and honey-blond hair, and she pulled her black wool coat close around her. This is crazy. What am I doing here in the middle of the night? she thought. Peachy was right. There's clearly no one home. It's deserted. She peeked through the wrought-iron gate and cautiously reached out to touch it. Silence. Hmm, no alarm. She looked around her. An oak tree rose on the outside of the wall to her right. If she could just reach that first limb and pull herself up and over. What harm could it do? She could walk the grounds and maybe look in a few windows. She barely remembered the place, but every time she came to visit Peach she longed to see it. She hadn't sneaked out and come all this way not to at least give it a try.
Getting over the wall was easier than she thought and she found herself facing her secret castle. That's how she always viewed it. She had felt like Cinderella here. After all, the last time she visited she couldn't have been more than ten. She tiptoed across the stone walkway that led to the front of the house, then ducked behind a stone pillar at a sudden rustling overhead. Her gaze followed a batch of blackbirds as they burst out of a nearby tree and fluttered off toward the full moon. She sighed in relief and resumed her quest. She came to the front enclave and peeked around it at the large wooden door, then crept toward the window. Suddenly, a flash of light shone through the glass. Startled, she glanced around quickly for a place to hide and ducked behind a hedge as the door swung open and an elderly man in an overcoat and slippers held a lantern aloft and peered out into the night. She held her breath. Then she felt a warm hand grasp her shoulder and whip her round. She gasped, "Oh!" She stumbled out of the bushes, dried leaves clinging to her hair.
"I've got her, Simmons!" The tall, young man announced triumphantly.
She heard footsteps approaching and the light from a second lantern bounced off the shadows. A familiar voice pierced the night air. "Now, who on earth…?" He stopped short.
She turned to face him and her eyes grew wide. "Daddy?"
Shane stared at the beautiful young girl before him. Her skin was like porcelain, her button nose small and slightly turned up, her long, silky hair fell in waves. She was taller, he thought. And her eyes were an austere hazel-brown, like his, but she was Kim's daughter, all right. She took his breath away. "Jeffers, bring her over here," he said in a hushed but firm tone, then he grabbed her by the arm and practically flung her through the front door. Jeffers looked around, then followed them in, as Simmons doused the lanterns and the men hurriedly pushed her toward the back of the house.
"Jeffers, wait five minutes then do a quick tour of the grounds to see if she's been followed," Shane ordered.
"Yes, sir," the lanky, dark-haired man replied and disappeared down a hallway.
Simmons led the way back to a small kitchen in the servants' quarters, where a fire lit the hearth and three clear mugs of ale waited on a wooden block table. "Simmons, could you leave us for a few minutes?" Shane asked.
"Certainly, sir." And the old man made a discreet exit.
Shane thrust her into a chair by the fireplace. Her scarf fell to the floor and she quickly ran a hand through her hair, attempting to remove some of the leaves, but her eyes never left his. He was dark and imposing, just like Donovan Manor itself. He looked thinner, more weathered than she remembered; his wavy black hair, now peppered with grey, was pushed back off his face. He was dressed in a black turtleneck and trousers and there was several days' stubble on his face, but even so, it was unmistakably him.
He put his hands on his hips and stared down at her. "Just what do you think you are doing?! Do you have any idea how much danger you were in? You could have been followed or attacked or…worse." He ran a hand through his hair and began to pace the room. "What are you doing in England and how the devil did you get here, anyway?" He continued, not waiting for an answer. "And at this time of night! Have you taken leave of all your senses, young lady? I know this isn't exactly downtown L.A., but it's still very dangerous!" He leaned down and grabbed her by the shoulders, his eyes boring into hers, "We thought you were an intruder. We could have hurt you," he shook her slightly, "Do you understand?"
In a flash, she remembered the gun he had removed from his waistband and set on a table as they rushed in. His hands squeezed her shoulders hard and they began to ache. She stared at him, willing her lip to stop from quivering, but the tears spilled onto her cheeks unbidden. "You--you're alive," she stammered, then dissolved into great heaving sobs.
He watched her, his heart breaking. He loosened his grip and knelt before her. "Jeannie…" She flung herself into his arms, and he held her tightly, stroking her hair and taking deep, calming breaths. He couldn't believe she was here; he was holding his daughter in his arms after all this time.
After a while, her crying slowed and he released her. She sat back up in the chair, wiping the tears with a handkerchief he had handed her. From his crouched position, he watched her remove her coat and place it on the chair back. She looked at him. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I didn't know anyone was here."
"So breaking and entering when no one's home is better?!" He looked at her incredulously. She was reckless, this one. He stood up and sighed, trying to control his temper. "Listen, sweetheart, I'm sorry if I scared you." She relaxed a little at the term of endearment. He turned back to face her. "You just have to understand that it is not safe for you here." He leaned on the edge of the table. "How did you get here anyway? Were you staying at Peachy's?"
He had correctly surmised that her plans for winter break included spending some time with the woman she had come to know as almost a grandmother. Through the years, Lavinia Peach had been the singular link to her father. She had told them nothing; only that, last she knew, a few years back, their father was alive but she didn't know where he was. As Jeannie grew older, she knew that Peachy was keeping other secrets from them, but she could never get her to admit anything. Still, she longed to know why her father had suddenly lost contact with them almost five years ago. The ISA reported him dead and, as it had happened on more than one occasion, her mother had difficulty believing it. However, as the years dragged on with no word, the official explanation seemed more and more plausible. Until today, Jeannie thought in wonderment.
Shane fetched Jeannie a blanket and some hot tea and they sat at the table as Jeannie related how she had come to sneak out of Peachy's house and have a friend she had met at a pub give her a ride. With the usual teenage foresight, she hadn't planned past getting to Donovan Manor and had given no thought to where she would spend the night or how she would return. After haranguing her about the dangers of hitching rides with total strangers in the middle of the night, Shane placed a quick call to Peachy to let her know that Jeannie was all right. Then, after receiving word from Jeffers that Jeannie had not been followed, Shane let his guard down a little, and he and his daughter talked through the night. Jeannie peppered him with questions which he deftly avoided, and he let her go on about school, her friends back in L.A., her older brother Andrew, and of course, her mother. Shane marveled at her. She had grown into a bright and engaging young woman.
As morning broke, Jeannie lay asleep in a nearby armchair as Shane stared at the dying embers of the fire and considered his options. His carefully crafted plans had just been blown to pieces by an obstinate young girl with more courage than common sense. He glanced over at her lovingly. What to do now? The sound of Simmons shuffling into the room brought Shane out of his reverie. "Sir, there's a call from Miss Peach on the secure line. It sounds urgent."
"Thank you, Simmons." He walked through to a smaller back room, being careful not to awaken his daughter. "Peachy, what is it?" He expected news about a certain someone they had been tracking near Brussels. Even though he had been officially declared dead by the ISA, Peachy and he still had an extensive list of contacts scattered throughout the agency. And good agents were fiercely loyal to one another, regardless of rank or official status. But as she hurriedly relayed the frantic phone call she had just received from Kimberly, all breath left his body and he leaned against the door frame. It seemed his decision had been made for him.
He returned to the kitchen and knelt by Jeannie, gazing at her for a minute. Then he reached for her arm and gently roused her to consciousness. "Sweetheart, you have to get up."
Jeannie blinked at him, yawning. He had that serious look on his face again. What had she done now? She sat upright.
"Jeannie, something's happened. We're catching the next flight to Salem."