Bound with Love Read online

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  Hillsborough, NJ 08844

  www.riptidepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

  Bound with Love

  Copyright © 2015 by Megan Mulry

  Cover art: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  Editors: Sarah Frantz Lyons, Delphine Dryden

  Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  Photography: Jenn LeBlanc/Illustrated Romance

  Any people featured on the cover are models and used for illustrative purposes only.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-263-9

  First edition

  June, 2015

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  A perfect life—until one letter threatens to unravel it all.

  Lady Vanessa Cambury, Marchioness of Camburton, adores her life of bucolic contentment with her partner, acclaimed portrait painter Nora White. Together, they have raised two children from Vanessa’s first marriage and built a home filled with purpose, ease, happiness, and passion—always passion.

  But when Nora receives word that the child she lost twenty years ago is alive and in England, ancient heartache threatens to destroy their idyll.

  To salvage their love, they must come to a deeper understanding of who they are—in the world, and to one another. Nora must learn to overcome the dark shadows of her past. Vanessa must learn to put others’ needs before her own. And Nora’s stubborn daughter must find it in her heart to forgive the mother she thought abandoned her. This unconventional family must rely on the powerful links of love and mercy to bind them back together.

  About Bound with Love

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Megan Mulry

  About the Author

  More like this

  Camburton Castle, Derbyshire – July 1810

  “The Dowager Duchess of Mandeville would like to commission a portrait of her son with his new wife and baby.” Vanessa’s voice held its usual businesslike tone as she read through their correspondence, but this particular bit of news was laced with a touch of humor.

  Nora smiled as she loaded her paintbrush with the rich blue she’d just mixed to add depth to the satin folds of Eliza Courtney’s dress. “Poor Farleigh finally relented, has he? Given up the boys for good?” She applied the paint to the canvas and worked it lightly.

  Vanessa hummed as she read the rest of the letter, half to herself, but also to let Nora know she was there. Would always be there. Nora adored the sound of that hum, for it embodied everything lovely about the life the two of them had built over the past twenty years. That hum promised a future, acknowledged the past. The hum was usually accompanied by a gentle hand on Nora’s shoulder or the back of her neck, but never when Nora was painting.

  While the outside world lauded Nora as the creative force between the two of them—the accomplished painter, the prolific artist—if it were not for Vanessa’s faith in her abilities, Vanessa’s confident nature prodding her on, Nora would still be . . .

  Well, it didn’t bear considering where Nora White would still be were it not for Vanessa Montagu Cambury, Marchioness of Camburton, Force of Nature. For Vanessa, life was full of promise and always had been. Even at her darkest moments, when her dashing young husband died at sea and left her bereft—with their new twins and his old money—Vanessa had peered through the mist of loss to the lifetime of possibilities that lay before her. A devoted single mother and successful independent businesswoman by the time she was twenty-five, Vanessa refused to be daunted by mere circumstances such as death.

  For Nora, circumstances had always been far more . . . daunting. She tried to stop her mind from wandering into the darker moments of her past. The month of May had pitched her into a terrible spell of sadness—as always—and she wasn’t about to let herself get dragged back into that frame of mind on this beautiful July morning. What was done was done, she told herself, giving Eliza’s dress an extra swipe of the sultry blue.

  Vanessa rested her palm against Nora’s nape.

  “Darling, I beg you,” Nora huffed good-naturedly, “as much as I crave your touch, you mustn’t pet me while I’m working—”

  “Put your brush down.” Vanessa’s voice bore no resemblance to the lighthearted cadence of a moment before.

  “What is it?” Nora turned her attention from Eliza’s portrait, holding the brush aloft a few inches from the canvas. She only needed a few more strokes to make that bit of fabric fall precisely the way she wanted, and if the paint dried, the opportunity would be lost. “I’m working—”

  “Farleigh has married a Spanish girl.”

  A prickle of awareness traveled up Nora’s arms, and she had to hold the paintbrush tighter, lest she drop it on the extravagant carpet. Vanessa squeezed the base of her neck for moral support, and then massaged the skin with a few passes of her thumb.

  “Put the paintbrush down, Nora.”

  Nora did as she was told, moving in slow motion, her ears pounding, the air around her becoming thick and murky; she was drowning.

  “Come sit with me, darling.” Vanessa helped her up and the two of them settled on the bright red satin chaise. It was an absurd purchase Vanessa had made in London a few years ago, insisting an artist’s studio simply had to contain a tawdry red satin chaise. Despite its egregious color and rococo gilt frame—or maybe because of it—the two of them spent many hours lounging against the luxurious fabric in one another’s arms.

  Vanessa positioned Nora so they could both read the letter at the same time, with her petite frame settled in the familiar curve of Vanessa’s lap. Ever since Nora was eighteen, to Vanessa’s twenty-five, she had fit against the other woman like a delicate robin’s egg in its nest. Safe.

  Even though the piece of paper was right in front of her, Nora’s eyes were already swim
ming and she wasn’t able to focus on the letters. “Please. Be a love and read it aloud for me.” She finally shut her eyes.

  Vanessa took a deep breath and pulled Nora tighter against the protection of her body. “Well, here at the beginning, it’s all the usual charming blather about what a divine artist you are and how busy you must be . . . and then . . . yes, here it is, the duchess goes on to say: ‘Farleigh has finally fulfilled my greatest wish and provided me with a splendid grandson upon whom I may lavish all my undiluted love. He is a rascal already, at one year, very much like his father, creating mischief—and a devoted following—wherever he goes. I think this is the best time to capture him on canvas, and I also think you would enjoy meeting the rest of Farleigh’s family.’ She’s underlined that bit, you see,” Vanessa amended.

  Nora tried to keep breathing. “What does she mean by ‘the rest of Farleigh’s family’? The wife?”

  Vanessa inhaled and then continued, “Well, that’s the rub. Here’s the interesting part. ‘I hope you will not think me impertinent, and it is only because I was such a close friend of your Uncle Fitz and feel myself able to speak honestly about your circumstances, that I am taking such a liberty. Farleigh has married a lovely Spanish woman named Pia Carvajal. I believe they are quite in love with one another, as much as a mother can gauge such things, and as much as Farleigh can love anyone. They also live in very close proximity with another couple. They are two happy families who spend much of their time together, as far as the outside world is concerned. But I believe they are one family, if you take my meaning—which, again, only because I presume to know your own liberal beliefs on the subject, do I believe you will take . . . my meaning, that is. I would like all six of them in the portrait, you see. Farleigh, Pia, and their son, Teddy, along with Sebastian, Anna, and their daughter, Dolores. Perhaps at a picnic or by a river, something bucolic and natural, as they all seem to thrive in the outdoors. No drawing room, please. I’m sure Nora will envision something appropriate and divine without much prodding from me, as she did eight years ago for my late husband’s portrait, which hangs above the mantle in the room where I am writing this.’”

  Nora’s breathing was shallow and her mind hazy, but she tried to follow the rambling nature of the old woman’s letter. “Please finish, Vanessa. I’m not sure I can tolerate much more.”

  “I know darling, I’m sorry. Here’s the important part: ‘All of this must seem quite convoluted, and I suppose it is, but my memory has rarely betrayed me and I fear the arrival of one particular member of this extended family might bring a shock to Nora. I am probably being overcautious, but I wanted to be particularly careful rather than ever risk Nora’s discomfort. When you and your uncle returned from Spain twenty years ago with that poor girl in your care, Montagu confided in me regarding some of the details of her trials. For some reason, the name Floridablanca has always stuck in my mind’—”

  Inhaling sharply, Nora stiffened in her lover’s arms. Leonor Medinacelli de Redondo, Condesa de Floridablanca, was put to rest in 1790.

  Nora White came into the world the same day, fully formed at the age of eighteen.

  “Shhh, sweetheart. He is dead. We saw the notice in the paper two years ago.” Vanessa kissed the side of Nora’s neck. “You are far beyond his reach now.” Nora settled somewhat, but her spine never fully relaxed. The mere mention of his name still caused her lungs to burn as if filling up with bile.

  Vanessa kissed her again, at the back of her neck, and whispered more soothing nonsense about how much she loved her and how no one could hurt her and how all of it was in the past. Nora tried to feel some comfort, but it wasn’t possible. “Please. Stop coddling me. Do finish the letter. I must lie down in silence before the pain in my left eye blinds me.”

  “Oh, Nora, no. Breathe, like we’ve practiced. Please don’t let him have this power over you—”

  “Stop it!” Nora shouted, then started crying in pathetic heaving waves. “I’m sorry, Vanessa, but you must finish and then allow me to feel my feelings. Please.”

  “Very well. Here is the rest of the letter: ‘I remember thinking how language could be so ironic, to give a cruel man such a pure and innocent name as “white flower.” Oh dear, I really am rambling. I do apologise. In short, when Farleigh’s friends arrived from Spain and decamped in London two years ago, I was immediately taken with Anna de Montizon, the young wife of Farleigh’s very particular friend, Sebastian. Anna is utterly vivacious, opinionated, strong-willed, and captivating. We continue to spend many hours together in joyful company now that summer is here and we are all on the property at Mandeville House. And now to the point: Anna does not look remotely Spanish. She is blonde and, well, I suppose I must simply say it outright, bears a striking resemblance to your dear husband and especially his brother, Dennis, and your son for that matter. To be frank, Anna has the Cambury birthmark at the base of her neck. Anna and Pia were raised in a remote convent in the north of Spain. She has never mentioned the Floridablanca name, nor, I confess, have I welcomed the opportunity to broach such a volatile subject. But Anna turned twenty last month, on the first of May, and I thought perhaps the date might suffice to prove my suspicions that she is related to your dearest Nora.’ Then she continues with the usual niceties about the weather in Cambridgeshire, et cetera, et cetera. Oh, darling—” Vanessa gripped Nora while she wept.

  Crying silent tears, Nora pictured her daughter, grown and beautiful and already here in England. And a mother! She was overset with joy at the prospect of a granddaughter, a new life, a chance to start fresh. And then she simply wanted to toss up her accounts. Breathing had become difficult. She wanted to run away—from Vanessa, from all this history and information, from the truth and the shame of it all. She was suffocating under the pressure, the weight of her failure. What kind of mother abandons her baby? Even when beaten and cut with a jagged Moorish knife? Only a beast of a mother would leave her baby behind.

  “Breathe, Nora,” Vanessa whispered, and then continued trailing the palm of her hand up and down the length of Nora’s arm. “You don’t have to see her. It’s not your fault. We all believed the baby was stillborn. I saw you that night, darling. You had no life to give. You were practically dead yourself.”

  “Vanessa, please don’t.”

  “Or if, by some bizarre coincidence, this Anna de Montizon—” Vanessa shook the parchment as if it were a piece of evidence in the high court “—if this is your daughter, you still don’t have to see her. If seeing her after all these years will be too upsetting, then we simply won’t do it. I’ll tell the dowager duchess there’s been some misunderstanding—”

  “Of course, I will see her!” Nora stiffened in Vanessa’s arms and tried to pull away from the undeserved comfort she offered. “Are you suggesting I abandon her a second time? Run away like I did in ’90?”

  “Stop it this instant.” Vanessa held her steady with one hand, then dropped the letter to the floor and pulled her hard against her with the other. “You did not abandon her!” The words were soft, but hot and fierce against the shell of Nora’s ear. “Your bastard husband left you for dead. Uncle Fitz saved you, hid you in the British consulate and brought you to safety in London. As far as Floridablanca was concerned, you were dead. He killed you! You did not run away, do you hear me? He killed Leonor that night. Nora was saved.”

  Nora started tunneling out. That’s what she and Vanessa had always called it, early on, when they’d first met and Vanessa and her children were the only ones who could come near Nora without the shrieking and scratching that had all the young housemaids chanting phrases to ward off the evil spirits. It used to happen with regular frequency. The doctors never knew if it was a physical result of the beatings she had taken at the hands of her possessive husband, or psychological aftershocks from the way he had treated her for the duration of her pregnancy.

  Of course, any doctor who implied it was simple female hysterics was summarily driven from the sick room. Valkyrie Vanessa re
fused to tolerate any such nonsense. Gradually, the episodes had become less and less frequent. Nora’s painting served as an outlet for her darker moments, and eventually her lighter ones as well.

  She hadn’t tunneled out in years: the narrowing of her vision, the roaring surf in her ears, the sheen of boiling sweat that somehow left her frozen. It was almost welcome. “I can’t breathe. Vanessa, I can’t breathe—”

  Casa de Floridablanca, Madrid – May 1790

  I can’t breathe, she thought helplessly. Leonor knew she had to keep breathing or the baby would die. It was a thought unto itself, sitting in the corner of her brain like a lighthouse, the beam bright for a moment, then turning dim. Must breathe. Why did she have to breathe again? The blood in the back of her throat was curdling into thick, sinewy mucus. She could breathe around that for now, but it seemed to be filling her up from inside, as if she were drowning. And then another wave came. The pain was ferocious, but at least this time it was full of purpose; the pain of the delivery would amount to something.

  She heard the clink of his large gold signet ring against the crystal tumbler holding his fine whiskey. “How much longer must I withstand this nonsense before we know if it’s a boy?” he drawled in his ancient, aristocratic Spanish.

  The two nuns who had served alternatively as nurses and gaolers over the past nine months looked as though they might’ve finally come to realize that perhaps the wayward young wife was not the villain in this tragedy after all. Leonor reached for one of the nuns and pulled her close with what little strength remained. “Do not let him kill my daughter . . .”

  “Shhh, Leonor. If you are lucky, it will not be a daughter. The count will turn a blind eye to your sins if you give him a boy child. You must pray very, very hard for a son.”

  Leonor breathed through a lesser wave of pain. The gash on her shoulder made her feel like her arm wasn’t properly attached to her body. So many parts of her that he’d destroyed—she wasn’t sure anymore which pains had to do with her child’s birth and which ones had to do with her own impending death. Another colossal wave of pain roared through her, and Nora suspected it would probably be the last thing she experienced on this earth. The baby was wrenched out of her on the final push, and as soon as Nora spied the downy golden hair covered in the glistening wet evidence of the nine months it had spent inside her body, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the pillow. It was Cambury’s child. That gorgeous blonde hair. The mark on the neck. The flood of emotions was overpowering. Gratitude. Love. Terror.