[Sunwalker Saga 04] - Kissed by Moonlight (2013)

by Shéa MacLeod

  "Inigo?" The joy that flooded me was beyond describing. Tears welled in my eyes, swelling my throat tight as I cupped his cheeks in my hands, holding his head away so I could drink in every curve and plane of his beautiful face.

  Sapphire-blue eyes stared back at me, heavy with desire. Lush lips curved in a smile. "Who else." His low, sexy chuckle sent my hormones and my heart zinging happily. Who else indeed?

  With excruciating slowness, he undid my shirt, one button at a time. He pressed a kiss to each inch of skin he revealed, as though he were savoring the taste of me. I tangled my hands in his hair, letting the silky strands slide through my fingers as I guided him down, down...

  He stopped at my waistband, and I let out a sound of frustration.

  He chuckled again. "Patience, love."

  "Not my strong suit."

  His grin was infectious. "Don't I know it." Slowly, he kissed his way back up to my collarbone, sliding my shirt off my shoulders to toss it on the floor. He kissed my throat, my jawline, before settling his mouth over mine in one of those slow, hot kisses that left me feeling drugged.

  His tongue slid and danced over mine. I lost myself in the wet heat of his mouth, and the scent of campfires and s'mores that was uniquely Inigo. I slid my hands over his hot skin, memorizing every inch.

  "You were gone. You left me." I couldn't help it. All the pain and sorrow suddenly came welling out. Wounds ripped open by passion.

  "Never," he whispered against my lips. "Never. I'm always with you Morgan. Every minute of every day. I promise you that."

  "You make it sound like you're dead," I choked out, a salty tear threatening to spill over and slide down my cheek.

  "Do I feel dead to you?" He pressed himself into me until I could feel the hard length of his arousal.

  "Hells, no." My voice was a little strangled.

  "Good." His expression turned serious again, focused on the task at hand.

  With one hand, he flicked open my purple bra before pushing me down on the bed. The lacy confection joined my shirt on the floor.

  "Perfect," he whispered as he cupped my heavy breasts in his palms.

  Every woman should have a man who believes with every fiber of his being that she is beautiful. I slid my hands to the hem of his T-shirt, wanting to feel his bare skin against mine. To see his own perfection.

  "Not yet."

  He pulled my hands away, and then lowered his mouth to my left breast. Drawing my nipple into his mouth, he flicked it with his tongue. Heat shot straight to my core. I arched my back, wanting more. He obliged, drawing my nipple into the hot wetness of his mouth.

  He moved to my other breast, repeating the process. He sucked and licked until I was so wet and wanting, I thought I'd come from that alone.

  He slid a hand to my waist, popping the button on my jeans and lowering the zipper tab. I wriggled a little, helping him as he pulled my jeans and panties slowly down my thighs and off, tossing them off the bed.

  Wanting him naked, I grabbed the soft hem of his shirt again, pulling it up and over. It joined my clothes in a tangled pool on the floor, but he wouldn't let me touch his jeans. "Not yet."

  I groaned in frustration. "Jerk." I said it with more affection than malice. His laugh rumbled against my sensitized skin.

  He caressed my stomach and lower, stroking, parting me. He slid his fingers through my wetness. "Oh, gods, Morgan."

  His fingers swirled around my bud. I whimpered at his touch as little tremors shot through me.

  Our kiss was so hot, I thought we'd both go up in flames. This time he let me take off his jeans and black boxer briefs. Finally.

  He took me in one long, slow slide. Stretching, filling. Little mini orgasms shot through me. I dug my fingers into the thick muscles of his shoulders, a whimper building in the back of my throat.

  He pulled out, almost to the tip, before thrusting back in. Hard. I arched to take him as deep as I could, letting out something between a scream and a groan at the sheer pleasure. I'd never been a quiet lover.

  We fell into a rhythm, each thrust sending us closer and closer to the edge. One more, and we toppled over. Our cries of ecstasy were music to my ears.

  As the afterglow faded, I held him tight in my arms, afraid to let him go lest I wake up and realize it was all a dream. "Gods I've missed this."

  "Me, too." His voice was muffled. One hand was clenched in my hair and the other wrapped around me, holding me close.

  I stroked his hair and down his neck to the smooth skin of his back. "I've missed you."

  "Why? I've been right here." He raised his head, and the face staring back at me wasn't Inigo's. It was Jack.

  * * *

  I came awake with a gasp, kicking and thrashing at the thin blanket which had managed to somehow wrap around my legs. I flailed, half out of it, until I realized I'd been dreaming after all. I hadn't just made love. I was on a plane. Headed to France. With Jack.

  Jack.

  Oh, gods.

  I buried my face in my hands, feeling a little ill. How could I dream of two men like this? I must have something wrong with my head.

  "You okay?" Jack glanced over from his seat on the other side of the plane. He was holding a book, one of those Dan Brown type thrillers, and looked only vaguely interested in my condition.

  "Huh?"

  "Looks like you had a bad dream."

  I swallowed, heat rising in my cheeks as I shoved hair out of my face. "Something like that. Where are we?"

  "We'll be landing in about thirty minutes."

  I nodded. "Guess I've got time to powder my nose."

  I jumped up and rushed to the bathroom. Jack shot me a baffled look as I slammed the door behind me. I braced myself over the sink, half afraid I might be ill.

  I felt guilty. Like I'd actually just cheated on Inigo, even though it had only been a stupid, ridiculous dream. And we can't control our dreams, right? I would never do that in real life. Besides, Cordelia had told me not to put too much stock in these dreams of Jack and Inigo. But what was I to think when I kept dreaming of them both?

  I knew it was ridiculous to get so worked up over a dream, but I couldn't help it. It had all been so real. I was still half aroused and completely wracked with guilt and confusion.

  "Get a grip," I snarled at my reflection before splashing my face with cold water. I ran wet fingers through my hair, trying to wrestle it back into some semblance of respectability.

  It was just a dream, probably brought on by the fact that it had been several months since I'd had sex. Not to mention my boyfriend was in a coma, or whatever you want to call that weird egg thing, and my life was a total disaster at the moment. The dream didn't mean anything. Except that maybe I needed to get my head examined.

  Chapter 23

  The French countryside stretched out on either side of the car, wild with daffodils and the pink and white fuzz of tree blossoms. Here and there, stone farmhouses dotted the landscape, colorful wooden shutters open to the morning sun. Despite the cool temperature, I had the window cracked so I could catch the fresh air. The wind teased at my hair and chilled my skin, leaving me grateful I'd thought to wear my leather jacket. For a moment, I could almost pretend this was just a vacation and it was Inigo driving the car, not Jack.

  I cast a sideways glance at Jack. As if I didn't have every plane of his face lodged in my mind for eternity. If I were honest with myself, in a way I was glad it was him I was with. I had been so angry with him, and yet I had missed him, too. It felt good to be back on the hunt together, and that gave me yet another thing to feel guilty about. How could I enjoy myself and enjoy time spent with another man when Inigo was...

  I forced my thoughts away from their maudlin path and cast my gaze back to the scenery. Willing myself to relax, I tried to recapture my daydreams of holidays and Inigo.

  "We're here." Jack's voice interrupted my fantasies. Dammit.

  He'd pulled off to the side of the road in front of the world's smallest village. Most of
the buildings shared common walls. Only the varying pastel colors on the shutters gave away the fact that they were, indeed, separate dwellings.

  I expected villagers to pop their heads out of the open windows to inspect us. Classic behavior in small towns everywhere. But they didn't. If there was anyone home, they were inside, firmly minding their own business.

  In the dead center of the village was a small circle of grass with an old pump well in the middle. Once upon a time, it would have been the only source of water for the village. Now it was a curiosity. Charming, but useless. Like that clump of parsley they dump on top of your cheeseburger at restaurants.

  On the other side of the town "square" was a small stone church that looked like it had been there for centuries, possibly even longer than the houses. More buildings of indeterminate use lined the village next to the church, their empty windows staring blankly on the world. The village was cute, I'll admit, but there wasn't even a bakery. How did one get fresh croissants in the morning?

  Jack hopped out of the Land Rover, slamming the door behind him and startling me out of yet another reverie. What was wrong with me lately?

  I hurried to catch up as he strode along the road and across the square toward the church. Okay, that made sense. It had been a priest who had called him, after all, and Jack had been a Templar. Templars and churches sort of went hand in hand.

  The inside of the church was dim and silent. The plain, simple plaster walls and high arched ceiling spoke of antiquity. Norman, maybe. I held back a sneeze as the thick, musty air tickled my throat. Between the heavy dampness, unpleasant odor, and the rock-hard benches, I wondered that anyone bothered to come to church.

  "Now what?" I stepped up next to Jack, waiting for... well, I had no idea what we were waiting for. There was nothing other than the unlocked front door to indicate anyone had been inside the church in ages.

  Jack didn't answer. He just stood there, arms crossed, an aloof expression on his face. I wondered what sort of memories this place held for him. He'd been his usual uncommunicative self the entire ride over from the airport. It was getting on my nerves. Nothing new there.

  A stirring toward the front of the church alerted me we weren't alone. I tensed my fingers, reaching for a hidden blade, but Jack seemed unconcerned, so I relaxed. Not entirely, of course. I'm not that dumb. I kept my hand close enough to the knife that I could grab it in an instant.

  The man who stepped from the shadows didn't look much like a priest. For one thing, he was dressed in the simple brown robes of a monk instead of the more priestly vestments. For another, he was barefoot, and his long reddish-brown hair was in a queue down his back. His craggy features lightened the minute he saw Jack.

  "What kind of a priest is he?" I kept my voice barely above a whisper, knowing Jack could hear me.

  "The good kind."

  The two men embraced like long-lost brothers, tears in their eyes. There was a lot of back thumping in that way guys do when they're hugging but still want to look macho. I don't think I'd ever seen so much emotion from Jack for another person. Not even me, back when we'd been together, for all he'd accused me of making him weak and distracted.

  They spoke in French, or something like it, for a moment, and then Jack turned back to me. "Morgan, I'd like to introduce you to one of my oldest and dearest friends, Father Jean-Pierre. JP, this is Morgan Bailey."

  John Peter. Two of the most famous apostles. "The Rock" and "the Beloved." Interesting. Or not. Who knew with priests?

  I stepped forward and shook the father's hand. His handshake was warm, firm, and a tingle of power radiated from him. Double interesting. I was pretty sure he was human, but he was tapped into something big, and it wasn't the Church.

  "Nice to meet you, Father."

  "And you, Ms. Bailey. Jack has told me so much about you," Father Jean-Pierre said.

  Wonderful. I can imagine the horror stories Jack told him, but the priest's voice, lightly accented, was sincere and without judgment.

  "Please," I said, "call me Morgan."

  The priest's smile lit up his face and made him almost handsome. "And you please call me JP. It's what Jack insists on calling me, and I've grown rather fond of it." He laughed, and I couldn't help but join in. I felt myself being sucked under his spell. The priest had a startling way of drawing you into his little cocoon of warmth and friendship. Was it a natural priest thing, or something more?

  "Okay, then, JP. Lead on."

  He lifted a rusty eyebrow. "Lead on?"

  Jack sighed. "I think what Morgan is saying, in her usual abrupt manner, is that she'd like to see the evidence from the break in." He made it sound as if I'd done something rude and embarrassing.

  I glared at Jack. Why did he always insist on throwing me under the bus? And just when I was starting to like him again. "I don't see the point in beating around the bush. JP called us for help and we're here. Let's do what we came to do."

  "Quite right," JP said with a nod. "If you're going to find who took the book and get it back, we need to move quickly."

  "Book?" I hadn't heard anything about a book. Jack had just mentioned something had been stolen. He hadn't been specific, and he had refused to go into detail no matter how much I threatened.

  JP glanced at Jack, then back to me. His hazel eyes caught mine and held, as if willing me to understand. "Yes. I will explain everything to you, but first I'd like you to see it with unprejudiced eyes. Please, follow me."

  When I nodded, he turned and hurried back up the aisle of the church and across the front area to the right. I admit, I tended to keep out of churches as much as possible so my knowledge of technical terms was pretty limited, apart from apse jokes.

  We ducked through a doorway at the side of the church's main room into a tiny chamber that looked like it might be used either as storage or a mud room. On the other side of the chamber was another wooden door, which JP pushed open. It led into a small courtyard surrounded by flower beds, and behind them, a wall of low shrubs. Someone, probably JP, had filled the beds with herbs instead of the usual roses and pansies. Their rich green tang was a welcome relief from the musty interior of the church.

  We followed JP across the courtyard to a narrow gap in the shrubbery, where he swung open a wrought iron gate. On the other side of the shrubs lay a wide field with a narrow, muddy footpath winding its way lazily through the rich green grass. The daffodils were so thick, they perfumed the air with their scent. Bees buzzed as they hopped from flower to flower, and birds chirped in the trees a few hundred yards away, down along the river.

  Once again, I found myself lost in fantasy, forgetting for a moment we were here on serious business. I could have stayed in that meadow for hours enjoying the scents and sounds of spring, the warm sun on my face, and the faint breeze tugging at my hair. Instead, I hustled along in JP's wake, Jack stomping along behind me.

  * * *

  The path meandered along, dipping down by the creek before heading back up the slight hill toward a grove of evergreen trees. I eyeballed the thicket with suspicion. The last time I'd been lured to such a place, it had been to face down the Fairy Queen's psycho brother, Alberich. It hadn't been a particularly fun experience, and not one I wished to repeat. My hand drifted close to my knife again.

  What waited for us on the other side of the trees was not a lunatic Sidhe, fortunately. Instead, we found a charming little chapel that looked older than the church. Its stone walls were dark and cracked with age, softened here and there with bits of moss and lichen. The roof was low, many of the slates having been replaced in recent years with brighter red ones that set a jarring note against the dull gray of the older slates. The windows were hardly more than slits high up on the walls, built during a time when glass was almost unheard of.

  The narrow path led straight to the chapel door. After fumbling with the ancient lock, JP ushered us inside.

  I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Only tiny trickles of light dared intrude on the sacred sp
ace. Dust motes danced in the narrow rays of sunshine. I could feel the zing of energy dancing along my skin. It had nothing to do with religion and everything to do with spirit. And I'm not talking ghosts.

  The only piece of furniture in the place was a simple altar at the front of the room. No benches, offering boxes, or fountains here. Not even a cross, which I found unusual.

  "Someone broke in?" I asked. "How can you tell?"

  JP beckoned us to follow him. "This way."

  He strode to the altar with Jack and me hot on his heels. The altar had been carved from a single piece of granite. The only adornment on the otherwise smooth stone was a carving in the front of a double cross: the Cross of Lorraine. It was the symbol of the Knights Templar.

  I started to ask about it, but before I could get anything out, JP pressed his fingers along one side of the carving. With a scraping sound that grated against my eardrums, the altar slowly swung to one side, revealing a staircase that descended into the depths of the earth. I stood there with my mouth hanging open as JP and Jack started down the stairs.

  Jack turned around and gave me a look of impatience. "Well. Are you coming?"

  "I am spending way too much time underground these days," I grumbled as I followed them down into the darkness.

  Chapter 24

  The stone steps were ancient, worn smooth by thousands of feet over hundreds of years so they dipped awkwardly in the center. I ran my hand along the masonry wall as we descended deeper and deeper. Each stone was perfectly cut and carefully nestled into place without the use of mortar. The work of expert stonemasons. It made sense; Templars were the precursors to the Masons, or so it was said.

  And that made me wonder: how many modern day Masons knew the truth? About the world, the supernatural, and the secrets Jack had kept for nearly a millennium. Did they know about Atlantis, for instance? Or the SRA? More to the point, did they know about me?

  I shook my head. That was a question for another time. If the modern Masons did know anything, they played it very close to the vest. Couldn't say I blamed them. Could you imagine George Washington running around dusting vampires?