yarrr, ye scurvy boy-king, halt ye whinin'

He was not to be caught a second time unaware. Lounging in the window, Lymond viewed her acolytes with a faintly etched interest. "Coals of fire. No. I observe that's the only thing lacking: such a warm day. Was it you who came in just now?"

"It was," said Kate grimly. "And I had a good look at you, so you might as well sit down."

The blue eyes were cool. "Why? Are you going to bathe me?"

"Hold your tongue," said Kate. "Charles will do that. And then, for no gratification that it will afford me, I'll dress your shoulder. Who performed the public service of perforating it?"

"Oh...a worm that turned," said Crawford of Lymond. "A bait which refused to be hooked. A brandling which snatched itself from the burning. I am quite capable of washing and repairing myself, if your people will leave the wherewithal."

Kate paid no attention, but mustered her materials and ushered in Gideon's servant. "Charles, I'll be back in half an hour," she said, and shut the door.

The noise of hammering brought her back before then. She found the man Charles, streaming with soapy water and pounding on the outside of the captive's room, which was ludicrously locked from inside. Kate pushed him aside and vibrated the handle. "What do you think you're doing? Let me in!"

Through the thickness of the door, his voice came, slow and flippant. "Mistress Somerville! The proprieties!" said Lymond; and though they banged and rattled and threatened, nothing more could they get out of him that day.

from The Game of Kings by Dorothy Dunnett