“Mrs. Jocelyn Smith,” Isabelle said, reflexively giving her assumed name. The man’s arm slackened. She started to edge away from him.
“Married, then?” Hornsby regarded her with droopy eyes reminiscent of a bloodhound.
“I used to be,” Isabelle said. Marshall straightened. “My husband died several years ago.”
Hornsby’s face brightened with a wide grin. “A widow! Some of our favorite people are widows, aren’t they, Monty?” He clutched her tightly again, this time bringing his other arm around her waist, as well.
Isabelle struggled against his crushing embrace. His sickly sweet aroma filled her nostrils. She turned her head to escape it.
“I’m sure the nights have been lonely, m’love,” Hornsby slurred against her ear.
Isabelle cast a desperate look at Marshall. Fury blasted from every line of his being. He made no move toward intervening on her behalf.
“Actually, no,” Isabelle said, casting daggers at the tall, silent man, “not at all. I don’t miss my husband in the least.”
“He must not have been man enough for you.” Hornsby’s hands slid down her back.
Isabelle answered him while Marshall’s intense black eyes held hers captive. “No, I don’t suppose he was.”
Three things happened in quick succession: Hornsby grabbed hold of her derrière; Isabelle yelped and pushed against his chest; and Marshall bellowed, “Enough!”
Hornsby released Isabelle, who made a dash for the door, only to have Marshall’s hands close around her upper arms in a vise grip.
“You will come with me now,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Now, see here, Monthwaite,” Hornsby said, indignantly wagging a finger, “I should like to point out that I laid claim upon Mrs. Smith’s attentions first. If she is going to go with anyone, in the spirit of fair play, it should be me.”
“Shut up, Hornsby,” Marshall snapped. “Mrs. Smith and I,” he said, dripping sarcasm all over her assumed name, “have some things to discuss.” He pushed, steering her out the door and toward the stairwell.
“I really don’t have time for a chat just now,” Isabelle said, futilely attempting to twist free of his steely hold. “Mr. Davies expects me to clear the dishes.” She leaned her back against him, pressing her feet into the floor in an attempt to force him to stop.
His hands tightened almost painfully around her arms. “If you continue to resist, I will pick you up and carry you.”
“I’ll scream if you do,” she ground out.
“And I will throttle you.” The low, seething tone dragged down her spine like a glacier.
Would he actually strike her? She cast wildly about for assistance, but the corridor was deserted but for the two of them. “You’ll be tossed out. Maybe arrested.”
Marshall snorted. “It would be worth it,” his voice rumbled against her neck. She shivered.
“All right,” she hissed. Isabelle snatched her arms out of his grip and mounted the stairs under her own power, excruciatingly aware of his looming presence behind her.
He guided her to his room toward the back of the inn. He opened the door, and a raspy, masculine voice said, “Good evening, Your Grace. I’ve laid out your nightshirt — ”
Isabelle followed Marshall into the room. His valet stopped speaking the instant he clapped eyes on her. At first, he gave his master a disapproving frown. Then he looked at Isabelle again. “You!” His mouth pinched, pulling his thin nose downward.
“Good evening, Clayton.” She gave Marshall’s valet a cool nod.
A glance around the bedchamber revealed a fine room. A double-mattressed bed occupied one corner, with a porcelain ewer and basin on a stand beside it. Marshall’s grooming implements had been arranged on top of a bureau next to the basin. There was a sitting area in front of the fireplace, and a smaller room off to the side to house his valet and trunks. Isabelle felt even more conspicuous in her cook’s garb in this lovely chamber, standing in front of the duke and his impeccably dressed servant. “Go have a drink,” Marshall said.
“Sir,” Clayton started, casting a frosty look at Isabelle, “if I may say so — ”
“You may not,” Marshall interrupted. “Not this time.”
Master and valet exchanged a silent communication. At last, Clayton acquiesced. Isabelle stepped back to allow him to pass, but he still managed to clip her with his shoulder on his way out.