The Lord and his Lady (Forbidden #2)

prologue

"You must open your mouth, ma'am, or I cannot feed you," whispered Belinha. Her mastah's elderly mother slapped the spoon away from her face.

"I'm not a cripple," the woman with the greying bob snapped. She never once took her eyes off the window she was seated near, the blue in her orbs having turned foggy with age.

"I understand, but mastah wishes you to eat."

"I shouldn't have encouraged him to teach you our language," she murmured grumpily. Belinha ignored this statement—it wasn't unusual for her to make cutting remarks when she did not like being asked to do something; she believed order and instruction was inferior and belonged to Belinha's kind.

"If you do not eat, ma'am, you will become sick," she said. And mastah will beat me.

"You're lucky I like you better than the others." With that, she opened her mouth begrudgingly and Belinha let out an internal sigh of relief. She turned her attention to the screams and laughter outside. Sir Pablo held a picnic earlier, with the kids of families still hanging behind to play. They gave off the aura they were from rich backgrounds, with crisp, clean pants and white shirts or dresses of the finest made fabrics.

She wondered what it was like to have the freedom that these kids had, to run around the slaves that worked hard for the food they ate and the clothes they wore without a care in the world. Their parents stood nearby with delicate tea cups in their hand, fanning themselves with their regal looking husbands beside them. They all owned manors deeper into the city. She had seen some of them when she was forced to go in for errands given to her by Sir Pablo.

She despised them; taking over her land, killing her people and slaving others and then acting as if this was theirs to begin with. Her blood boiled, her hand holding the searing hot soup shaking.

"What are you doing?"

The exclamation rang so loud in her ears it startled her. She shook in her chair, the bowl tipping over from her hand and onto the lap of Sir Pablo's mother.

She howled with pain before crying, chest heaving. Belinha, red with panic, fell onto her knees and slapped away the liquid contents, not caring that her own hands were burning.

A growl behind her and a sharp tug on her roots caused her body to surge backwards. Pain shot through her so raw that it choked her, unable to voice it.

"You dare hurt my mother, you little whore?" he sneered. She could feel his hot breath against her ear.

"I-It was an accident, sir."

He brought down his ringed hand before she knew it, the back of it colliding with her cheek and leaving it stinging and her eyes brimming.

"Luciana," he screeched, sending her scampering in. "You are not to give her dinner for tonight. Lock her up in the store room until I say so."

But he had forgotten about her, and she had been in there until the next morning. Stomach grumbling and feeling faint, she dropped to the ground in a heap.

***

She awoke to Luciana, who had made her a special herb paste for wounds, rubbing it onto her cheek that night under their makeshift straw hut.

She tsked when Belinha hissed, jerking away from her touch slightly. "I've told ya not to get yerself on their bad sides," she said.

"He scared me. I ain't do anything."

"You mean you was daydreaming," piped up Ruth, standing near the door with her hands on her hips. Her bright hazel eyes were narrowed in disappointment. "I can't stay for long but you is playing a risky game here."

They both watched as she ducked away, the dust kicking up into a mini sandstorm in the air. Belinha played with a rough straw piece sticking out from the side that served as a wall. "That girl's right. I heard from the others that two of our girls being chosen to go to England."

England?

"Sold to a wealthy duke, I heard, so don't go dreamin' about no fairytales. You ain't ever gonna know what life's like on the other side. We are slaves whether you like it or not. God gave us this life for a reason. You gotta get yer head out of the gutter or you is gonna get yourself killed."

"But—"

"To survive, you do as yer told. The fairytales I tell ya of princesses and freedom is just that—fairytales. Don't go gettin' useless ideas."

As she lay her head in Luciana's lap and felt her thick, bumpy hand thread through her long black curls, Belinha could not sleep.

All she could think of were her words. Did they not deserve a fairytale life full of luxury and freedom too? Maybe she was right, maybe God gave this life to them for a reason.

But that did not mean they lay dormant and let opportunities pass them. God gave them life but they chose how to live it.

She closed her eyes and prayed that she would be the one chosen to go to England. She didn't care if it was to be slaving for a wealthy duke, she would take that, a new adventure and experience, over this. And perhaps she could plan an escape. She was sick of the abuse, the pain.

Maybe in England, if she got the chance, she could start anew.