“What do you see?” he hissed, plucking impatiently at Fraser’s sleeve. The Scot thumped down on his heels and stared down at him.
“It’s that wee arse-wipe, Twelvetrees,” he said. “He’s going through Siverly’s papers.”
Grey barely heard the second part of this; he was already headed for the front door, and quite ready to break it down, should it offer him the least resistance.
It didn’t. It was unlocked, and he heaved it open with such force that it crashed into the wall of the foyer. The sound coincided with a startled yelp from the library, and he charged toward the open door through which light was streaming, barely aware of Fraser at his heels, saying urgently, “I’m no going to break ye out of that bloody castle again, just you remember that!”
There was a louder yelp as he burst into the library, to find Edward Twelvetrees crouched beside the mantelpiece, the poker clutched in both hands and poised like a cricket bat.
“Put that down, you bloody nit,” Grey said, halting just short of striking range. “What the devil are you doing here?”
Twelvetrees straightened up, his expression going from alarm to outrage.
“What the devil are you doing here, you infamous fiend?”
Fraser laughed, and both Grey and Twelvetrees glared at him.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said mildly, though his broad face still bore a look of amusement. He waved his fingers, in the manner of one urging a small child to go and say hello to an aged relative. “Be going on wi’ your business. Dinna mind me.”
He looked around, picked up a small wing-chair that Grey had knocked over in his precipitous entry, and sat in it, leaning back with an air of pleased expectation.
- The Scottish Prisoner by Diana Gabaldon
“Infamous fiend” is my new favorite insult.