Murder in Retribution Read Online Free PDF

Doyle would not have been surprised to discover she was bred by Nazis; although the housekeeper hid her feelings behind a façade of respect, Doyle knew she heartily disapproved of Acton’s bride—Marta was an easy read.
    Doyle explained to the woman that she could leave early today without preparing a dinner, and mentally chastised herself because she always allowed the housekeeper to see that she was intimidated, which only added to the other’s disdain. Marta thanked her woodenly, and gathered up her coat and purse. When Acton was present, Marta referred to Doyle as “madam” or “Lady Acton.” When he wasn’t, she didn’t. Doyle, however, was impervious to the snub—no one knew better than she that Acton had married out of his species. Mainly, she was a bit embarrassed because Marta no doubt guessed the reason that workaholic Acton was rushing home to meet his bride in private—“cereal” had become their code word for sex. It was nothing to be ashamed of, Doyle scolded herself; of course Marta would be aware of the goings-on in the household—privacy was a luxury, now. Still, Marta always made her feel as though she was a twopenny brasser and not Acton’s lawful wife, which didn’t help matters.
    Determined not to dwell on Marta’s subtle insolence, Doyle took down her hair and shook it out in anticipation. Despite the increasingly unmistakable signs that she was pregnant, Doyle had stubbornly adhered to their schedule of abstaining from sex during ovulation even though her temperature was no longer fluctuating. She’d been in denial, of course, and to make matters worse, she had been avoiding the subject with Acton, as though she could make the entire issue go away. Silly knocker, she thought, reviewing her pale complexion in the mirror; make it up to the poor man. After all, there was no point in closing the barn door; that horse is well away.
    A short time later she heard Acton’s key card in the slot, and she went to greet him at the door, dressed only in her robe. Almost instantly, his mouth was on hers, his hands pulling at the tie and his need urgent. He murmured against her mouth, “Marta?”
    “She will have to wait her turn,” Doyle teased. He said nothing further, his mouth moving down her neck, but she broke away for a moment, struck by a thought. “Oh—d’you think we should?”
    “Yes,” he said, sliding the robe from her shoulders. “I asked Timothy.”
    She tried not to think how embarrassing it would be to face Dr. McGonigal when next they met, and instead happily acceded to Acton’s furious lovemaking. It had been this way with him from the first; he craved her. She believed it was a symptom of his condition, a means by which he could climb into her skin, so to speak. Today their first fevered encounter was on the entryway rug; the second a more leisurely tryst after they adjourned to the bed. At its conclusion, he moved his mouth along her throat, across her face; his weight pressed against her. “How do you feel?”
    “Satiated.”
    “I meant,” he murmured, his mouth near her ear, “—are you still queasy?”
    “You have discovered the cure, thanks be to God.” Best not to mention the rug burns on her back.
    They lay quietly together, saying nothing, for quite some time. He liked to fold her in his arms after lovemaking, pulling her to him so that her back curled neatly into his chest—he was quite a bit taller than she. He would hold her against him and his fingertips would lightly move over her forearms and hands; slowly back and forth, repeatedly. She privately thought that nothing else he did to her was as pleasurable.
    “I have a meeting tomorrow,” he said from the pillow behind her head. “It is in Brighton.”
    Although it seemed an ordinary comment, it was actually quite significant; he did not do well if he was away from her.
    “Is it overnight? I will come with you.” As long as there was no unexpected fieldwork, she could always complete her