The Irresistible Urge to Fall for Your Enemy (Dearly Beloathed, #1)

by Brigitte Knightley

“It’s perfectly clean,” said Mordaunt. “There hasn’t been a cow here in months—present company excepted.”

Mordaunt waved a hand. “Memories of bygone days. I’m nigh untouchable now. My mark today did make a stabbing attempt—but he only had a spoon.” “A spoon?” “He was eating yoghurt,” said Mordaunt, by way of explanation. “You—you killed someone while they were eating yoghurt?” asked Aurienne. “Yes. It was good yoghurt, too.” “You ate the yoghurt?” “After he was dead, yes. He’d hardly touched it. What? What’s the matter? Have you mistaken me for someone respectable?” “Have you any sense of honour whatsoever?” “No,” said Mordaunt. “Anyway, I came here for a healing, not an assessment of my morals. Can we get on with it?”

Aurienne pushed past him—admittedly not an easy exercise—and strode around the corner. There she found Scrope, studded with at least two dozen stab wounds. Not quite dead, but not quite alive, either. “What did you do?” gasped Aurienne. “He fell,” said Mordaunt. “He fell?” “Yes. On the fork.” “He fell on the fork? Twenty times?” “Yes. Due to…fear.” “What was he afraid of?” “The fork.” Aurienne tore off her glove to heal the dying man. “You’re utterly unhinged.” “I’m perfectly hinged,” said Mordaunt. “You, on the other hand, have got the survival instincts of a crumpet.” “I beg your pardon?”

“Haelan Fairhrim would like to wash up; she had an unfortunate encounter with a lecherous shitbag.” “What?” gasped Mrs. Parson. “I took care of him,” said Mordaunt. “Couldn’t have him harassing our Haelan.” “I hope you made him suffer, sir,” said Mrs. Parson. “I did.” “Is he dead, sir?” “Yes.” “Send his mother a toe, sir.” “Good idea.”