Tugging a sea-scarred lip through surprisingly white teeth, Lieutenant Ford crossed his arms and leisurely eyed Imogen up and down. Her eyes rolled, as his gaze lingered on the scalloped edge of her corset.
“Lady Falcon, I presume.” His words elicited uneasy grumbles from the gathered men, and a startled oath from the still kneeling Leo.
Imogen hitched a shoulder. “If you like.”
“Last I saw you, you were face down on my quilt.”
Her smile was predatory; cheeks lacking the anticipated blush. “The map, darling,” she said, fingers straying towards her knives. “Don’t make me ask again.”
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: quilt, grumble, tug)