Perhaps she should feel a little more guilt for what she's done and what she's been doing: making her own private canvas of the compound. But it's an old habit from a worse time -- where intelligence is found in the most intimate of places, and she'd been involved in too many undercover missions during the war not to take any opportunity to discover what's here to be discovered. Peggy has no plans to take anything. She merely wants to look; read; see; find. An ignoble pursuit, but one she feels necessary in the absolute pit of her heart.

At the sound of a voice behind her, she bites down on a curse. She straightens, making a point of smoothing her palms over the bed's meagre sheeting. The spy-gone-kidnapped turns on a kitten heel and immediately begins to observe. He's tall. Possesses musculature that speaks of strength and experience. Except she'd expect a strong and experienced man to look more hardened than this: haggard or scarred, like Dum Dum or the other Commandos. But there's a never-dented look to this stranger that catches her eye almost immediately.

"Oh, bloody hell," she huffs. All awkward half-smiles and a flutter of the eyes. "Isn't this where I was dumped upon my arrival?" A waggle of her fingertips. Lying comes easily to her, but half the time it's effectiveness relies upon the base assumptions of the other person. Such lies are easiest told to the narrow-minded and the intolerant. Like proud men, likely to see weakness and folly in a woman. What a fatal error to make that assumption in this moment.

"Silly me," she canted her head. "Always getting lost."