Favel Farrington meets Roc Pendorric on the idyllic Mediterranean island of Capri, where she was raised and lives with her father. Roc sweeps her off her feet, taking her from her home by an emerald sea to the ancient family home of the Pendorrics, in Cornwall. His sister and her family await them with open arms, welcoming young Favel. She is the much anticipated Bride of Pendorric, a name that amuses and flatters her. The castle is beautiful in its way, but the atmosphere is foreboding. Roc's twin nieces begin watching her carefully; even the stones in the courtyard seem to have eyes. On the walls hang portraits of two other Brides of Pendorric―one of them Roc's mother―who died both young and tragically. Favel's fear increases as Roc seems to be growing more and more distant. Has her courtship and marriage been just a deception? Soon Favel can no longer dismiss as accidents the strange things happening to her. Someone is trying to kill her and she must confront the very real dangers that surround her. Eleanor Alice Burford Hibbert (1906–1993), better known to readers as Victoria Holt, Philippa Carr, and Jean Plaidy, was one of the world’s most beloved and enduring authors. Her career spanned five decades, and she was heralded as the “Queen of Romantic Suspense.” She continued to write historical fiction under the name of Jean Plaidy and romantic suspense as Victoria Holt until the time of her death. Bride of Pendorric By Victoria Holt St. Martin's Griffin Copyright © 2009 Victoria Holt All right reserved. ISBN: 9780312384166 ONE I often marveled after I went to Pendorric that one’s existence could change so swiftly, so devastatingly. I had heard life compared with a kaleidoscope and this is how it appeared to me, for there was the pleasant scene full of peace and contentment when the pattern began to change, first here, then there, until the picture which confronted me was no longer calm and peaceful but filled with menace. I had married a man who had seemed to me all that I wanted in a husband—solicitous, loving, passionately devoted; then suddenly it was as though I were married to a stranger.I first saw Roc Pendorric when I came up from the beach one morning to find him sitting in the studio with my father; in his hands he held a terra-cotta statue for which I had been the original, a slim child of about seven. I remembered when my father had made it more than eleven years before; he had always said it was not for sale.The blinds had not yet been drawn and the two men made a striking contrast sitting there in the strong sunlight: my father so fair, the stranger so dark. On the island my father was often called Angelo because of the fairness of his hair and skin and his almost guileless expression, for he was a very sweet-tempered man. It might have been because of this that I fancied there was something saturnine about his companion.“Ah, here is my daughter, Favel,” said my father as though they had been speaking of me.They both stood up, the stranger towering above my father who was of medium height. He took my hand and his long dark eyes studied me with something rather calculating in the intentness of his scrutiny. He was lean, which accentuated his height, and his hair was almost black; there was an expression in his alert eyes which made me feel he was seeking something which amused him and it occurred to me that there might be a streak of malice in his amusement. He had rather pointed ears which gave him the look of a satyr. His was a face of contrasts; there was a gentleness about the full lips as well as sensuality; there was no doubt of the firmness of the jaw; there was arrogance in the long straight nose; and mingling with the undoubted humor in the quick eyes was a suggestion of mischief. I came to believe later that he fascinated me so quickly because I could not be sure of him; and it took me a very long time to discover the sort of man he was.At that moment I wished that I had dressed before coming up from the beach.“Mr. Pendorric has been looking round the studio,” said my father. “He has bought the Bay of Naples water color.”“I’m glad,” I answered. “It’s beautiful.”He held out the little statue. “And so is this.”“I don’t think that’s for sale,” I told him.“It’s much too precious, I’m sure.”He seemed to be comparing me with the figure and I guessed my father had told him—as he did everyone who admired it: “That’s my daughter when she was seven.”“But,” he went on, “I’ve been trying to persuade the artist to sell. After all, he still has the original.”Father laughed in the rather hearty way he did when he was with customers who were ready to spend money, forced laughter. Father had always been happier creating his works of art than selling them. When my mother was alive she had done most of the selling; since I had left school, only a few months before this, I found myself taking it over. Father would give his work away to anyone who he thought appreciated it, and