Free The Promise by Fayrene Preston

decor, she told herself.
    Except there was one more thing. The obvious costliness and, in most cases, museum quality of the furnishings didn’t entirely explain why she felt as if she shouldn’t touch anything, perhaps, in fact, shouldn’t even stay.
    Was it SwanSea, she wondered, protecting its own? Did the great house somehow sense that if her plan were successful, there would be a child with Deverell blood running through his or her veins who would never be able to claim it as home?
    She touched her forehead. “Lord, Sharon, you are really losing it,” she whispered. “And not only that you’re talking to yourself.”
    At that moment the storm broke. Rain pounded against the windows, and overhead thunder boomed like an angry god.
    She jumped, then shook her head at her foolishness. She noticed her luggage neatly stacked on the padded bench at the end of the bed and decided to unpack, grateful she had found a distraction. Assuming Conall would arrive around six, she had a few hours to put away her things and accustom herself to her surroundings.
    But at seven that evening a message arrived from Conall, letting her know he wouldn’t be able to make it for dinner. She frequently ate out alone, but SwanSea was having a strange effect on her, and she elected to have dinner brought to her room.
    The noise of the storm eventually receded, though the rain continued. By ten o’clock she was soaking in the incredible seashell-shaped marble tub in her bathroom, trying to soothe nerves by this time strung painfully tight.
    Her lips quirked at a thought. She would have felt better if she and Conall could have arrived together and gone right to bed. As it was, this wait was giving her ample opportunity to review every doubt and every fear she had ever had about her plan.
    There was something wrong, something bothering her, something very important she felt she had overlooked. She just wished she could figure out what it was.
    Once out of the tub, she dried off and automatically slipped her arms into her chenille bathrobe and wrapped it around her. She hadn’t known what sort of clothes to bring with her, so she had brought a little of everything, including her much-loved chenille robe. Over the years it had faded from its original dark blue to a whitish-blue, and frequent washing had claimed a portion of its chenille tufts. But it was soft and warm and whenever she put it on, she felt comforted.
    She could think of nothing else to do, so she went into the sitting room and spent the next couple of hours curled up on a deep-green velvet couch in front of the fire.
    At midnight, when Conall finally arrived and opened the door to the suite, he found the sitting room shadowed, with light streaming into the room from the bedroom to his right, and a red-gold glow coming from embers in the fireplace.
    Sharon turned.
    “Did you give up on me?” he asked her, waving the luggage-laden bellboy toward the left bedroom.
    “I didn’t know what to think,” she said truthfully. There had been moments when she’d been afraid he wouldn’t come; then there’d been the fear he would.
    “It was a day of problems," he said, crossing the room to sink wearily onto the couch beside her, a cushion away. “I just couldn't seem to break free.”
    Her senses, already deluged, strained beneath the burden of his nearness. The sensual environment of their surroundings enhanced the impact of his masculinity in spite of the fact that the lines of his face seemed harsher tonight, his skin paler. “You look tired.”
    He eyed her thoughtfully, then propped his elbow on the back of the couch and rubbed his forehead. “And you look tense.”
    “I am a little. Waiting for you here, alone, with nothing to do . . .” She shrugged.
    “Didn’t you get out of the suite?”
    “I decided to wait. Swansea is a little overwhelming.”
    “Overwhelming?” He frowned. “You’re not intimidated, are you?”
    “I’m not sure if Intimidated is the right