Zach’s next breath emerged rather quickly, and it came to him quite suddenly that his father had indeed not lost his mind. If this in fact were Heather Castell, he blamed his father not at all for forgoing his well-heeled position in life to take up with her. In all his thirty odd years, Zach could not ever remember being deprived of breath upon first sight.

Until now.

Heather Castell’s eyes moved about the room, having started at the side opposite from where Zach sat, affording him several long seconds to appreciate her allure. Beautiful was too tame a word to apply to such a beguiling face and form. She stood not many inches over five feet, her build slender, yet curved in all the right places. Long gleaming tresses of perfect mahogany were tied in a neat ribbon at her nape, falling then to her hips, while a few stray tendrils escaped to frame a face over which the angels must certainly sigh. She was not so far away that as her searching gaze neared him he could not discern eyes the color of a flawlessly blue sky, set upon skin perfectly creamy and pale. Her nose was small and delicate, and below, her parted lips bowed generously enough to surely tempt a saint.

In the next instant, her eyes did settle upon him and Zachary determined that Heather Castell was just about as enchanting a creature as he had ever seen. As he was watching her, and did not look away when their eyes did meet, she wisely guessed that it was he who summoned her, and began to walk toward him. Something inside him twisted and roiled as she moved, as at least half a dozen hungry eyes followed her with frank appreciation. This, however, recalled the reason for this meeting, and Zachary was miserably reminded of exactly what she was. Strangely, this seemed to lessen her appeal not at all.

But something in his visage must have changed with these thoughts, for her steps faltered—almost imperceptibly—and her ethereal features took on an anxious mien. In a moment, she stood beside his table, her hands worrying the skirt of her apron, which covered a simple and well-worn gown of gray.

“I am Heather Castell,” she informed him, her voice soft and slow, nearly exotic the lilt of her tone.

“I am the Earl of Benedict,” was all he said, scrutinizing with great intent her face at this introduction. He knew immediately when this clicked in her head, for her lips parted again, her beautiful eyes widening with distress. Slender fingers flew to her mouth to stifle a cry as her eyes watered immediately.

“What—where is...?” She couldn’t seem to form a complete thought, and if Zachary didn’t know better, he’d have imagined that her grief was genuine as she realized that if he were the earl, it could only mean that his father was deceased.

“My father died three weeks ago,” he said simply, nearly brusquely, disliking this feigned anguish of hers.

With a small squeak at the harsh slant he applied to his tone, Heather Castell slumped into the stool opposite Zach, covering her face in her hands, crying with such trueness he nearly thought her sincere. She tried noticeably to control her sobs, taking huge breaths to stave them off, but they continued to come. She did not cry loudly, as to attract attention, but with seeming true pain, keening softly. After a moment, in which time Zach’s discomfort had grown powerfully, she lifted red and wet eyes to him.

“What happened? He was not unwell,” she protested, waving her hand in agitation. “I saw him only a month ago—was there an accident?”

Zach shook his head, beginning to believe that her sorrow might be genuine indeed. “No, he was not unwell,” he answered vaguely, his mind moving ahead, for if this torment before him were real, he needed then to know the exact extent of the relationship between this lovely woman-child and his father. “He, ah...” he said, making an effort then to bring himself back to the question at hand. “He suffered a stroke, that is all. He was gone almost instantly.”

This evoked a fresh wave of tears and Zachary began to feel decidedly uncomfortable, as he knew not what to do to console the poor girl. As they—her vocal sorrow, that is—were beginning to draw undue attention, Zach touched his hand to hers to garner her attention, as she had covered her face again. She startled and jumped at his touch and looked sharply at him.

“Perhaps there is a private room we might use to conclude our business,” he suggested, raising a brow expectantly. “And where you might...grieve without so many watchful eyes upon you.”

Surveying the room then as if it hadn’t occurred to her that many eyes indeed did watch her—perhaps often and fixedly, even when she wasn’t beset by grief—she nodded quickly and stood, facing Zach once again. “Um, I have rooms abovestairs,” she said, pointing imprecisely toward the door from whence she’d come. Something seemed to strike her then, some thought made her tilt her head curiously at him. “Had you...other business with me other than...bearing this news?” she asked and then sniffled once more.

Taken aback as he was by the sight of those haunting eyes, Zach did not answer immediately, but considered as he also stood from his stool, that she tried just now with this query, to dismiss him.

“Yes, I have business with you, Miss Castell,” he said coolly.

She nodded tensely and led the way from the taproom, ignoring the watchful and frowning eye of the beefy man behind the bar. Zach met the proprietor’s stare straight on, in such a foul mood as to nearly want to provoke something here. But the man, having curled his lip to advance his own opinion of Zachary, continued only to apply a damp towel to the inside of the used tankards and otherwise intrude not at all.

Zach followed her down a dim corridor and up a flight of narrow stairs at the end of the building, pretending that he was not at all entranced by the smooth sway of her hips, nor the length of her dark hair floating down her back. Upon the second floor, she opened the last door and stood holding its handle while her hand invited him inside.

He took in the whole of the room in one glance, the lone narrow cot in one corner of the room, the pretty lace curtains hanging from the one small window, the neatness of these chambers despite its cramped appearance, and even the warmth they seemed to emanate. But his brow furrowed, forgetting all of this, when his eyes settled upon the crib in another corner, a crib that was quite obviously occupied.

Standing up within that piece of furniture, while two chubby hands held tightly the rail, a cherubic blonde baby began to jump upon the firm mattress at the sight of Heather. “Mama! Mama!” The child cried happily.

Glancing nervously at Zach, Heather went directly to the child, scooping her up and out of the crib. “You should be sleeping, darling,” she said softly, kissing the girl’s pink cheeks, seeming not at all put out that the child was indeed awake. But upon gathering the baby to her bosom, another bout of tears consumed her and she kept her back to Zach while she cried heartily into the baby’s hair.

Zach witnessed this scene with something akin to horrified shock. While the child looked nothing like his father, seemed in fact to resemble her mother quite favorably, aside from the very blonde hair, Zach had to imagine that this was indeed...his sister.