A dead fiancé, an inheritance she never expected and a lawyer who may not have her best interests at heart, greet Bella when she arrives from England to marry a man who has died. There's a restriction. She must have the dilapidated house returned to its former glory before she gains title to the house and a prosperous mill.
Someone is just as anxious to have Bella return to England. Is it the arrogant lawyer, the handsome brother, one of the belligerent servants, or someone she has yet to meet? And if she refuses to retreat, will she forfeit her life?
Terrie Figueroa, Romance Communications
THE BRIDES OF OWL'S HEAD is a gothic novel in its truest form. It is reminiscent of gothic divas such as Victoria Holt and Phyllis Whitney. The story is told in the first person from Isabel's perspective. The story carries the reader along through Isabelle's thoughts and actions. The dialogue, while sparse, is believ! able and well done. The story is interesting and unfolds at an even pace. A sense of menace flows throughout the story and as it unfolds the tension mounts. I would recommend THE BRIDES OF OWL'S HEAD to readers who enjoy traditional gothic novels that have just a touch of romance.
From A Reader
I loved this book because I have found an author that reminds me of Victoria Holt. The story is a great mystery and romance all woven together. It kept me guessing and was exciting to read. This was also my first e-book, and though at first it was different, it really grew on me. This is definitely a 5-star read!
Summer lightning stabbed through the boiling storm clouds of the August afternoon. The pounding of ocean surf against granite rocks drowned out the distant rumble of thunder and muffled the screeching calls of fleeing sea birds. I stared at the monstrous house and the sheet of rock leading to the sea -- the promontory of Owl's head. It was a desolate picture.
A surge of foreboding shot through me and I stared at the massing gray puffs and swirls. The last thing I wanted was rain.
Grabbing my umbrella from the carriage seat, I hung onto it as one would hang onto a rope over a precipice. With my umbrella clutched tightly in my grasp, I prayed the bent little man on the sagging porch wouldn't notice my trembling hands.
Panic flared as his dark eyes wandered over my dove gray traveling gown. He glared at me and I retreated a step, swallowing my fear.
"You was expected a month ago, Isabel Morrison." His words poured over me. "Jonathan Besserman ain't here. He's dead." "Dead?" I whispered. "He cannot be dead. Surely, you are mistaken." For one instant I swayed, matching the slope of the porch.
"Seems to me," the withered creature leaned toward me, his words hissing in my face, "you shoulda come after you got the message."
I blinked. Message? What message was he talking about? I remembered only a thin sheet of parchment on which careful words were written; I will greet you when the Flaxen Lady docks in July. We will be married then.
That was the only communication I had from Jonathan Besserman. In fact, the ship's captain had supplied more information than the terse message. He explained that Jonathan would surely be waiting for me at the local inn. The captain offered to accompany me and make the introductions.
However, Jonathan never came.
The little man's voice cut through my reverie. "The accident took place three months ago. Sent ya word soon after. Shoulda got it long before ya sailed."
"I received no such missive." Besides, I had to come, there was no other place for me to go. I had promised my father and there were no relatives left in England, no money, certainly no employment. The small number of coins I had realized on the sale of the farm, a bit of a dowry, had been forwarded to the man I had pledged to marry.
Yet, the man I'd promised to marry was dead, according to the shrunken creature on the wooden porch. Appalled by my circumstances, I closed my eyes, not willing to let this man see my anxiety.
I opened my eyes and took a step back, but the servant leaned forward. I gazed at his intense eyes, shook my head and tried to ascertain the old man's honesty.
"Mr. Jonathan Besserman, formerly of Portland, Maine, is dead?" I doubted him. I couldn't help myself.
"That be the man. Yep, it's hisself that is dead."
