Since she was pointing so disdainfully at his groin, he followed her gaze and noted, with wry alacrity, that he was indeed somewhat lacking in substance. But, having been addressed so personally, not to mention slandered, the object in question began to slowly, steadily rouse itself for a rebuttal.
Servanne’s eyes widened in horror. Her throat worked to dislodge the lump that was steadfastly threatening to smother her, but to no effect. Disbelief, incredulity … fear … whatever kept her gaze fixed on the naked satyr also drew her hands upward to attempt to confine the wild beating within her breast.
The Wolf’s smile faded. The jest was suddenly no longer a jest and he could feel the heat in his blood rising to match the heat of the water.
“Come into the pool, Servanne,” he ordered quietly. “You know you want to.”
Her eyes flicked up to his, filled with shame and anger. “No,” she gasped. “No … I want no such thing!”
With a muffled sob of desperation she ran for the wall of ivy, but having been upside down and backwards when she was carried in, as well as dazed by too much blood pounding in her temples, Servanne could not immediately find the break in the vines that led to fresh air and freedom. She pushed and plucked and tore at the tangled greenery, all the while aware of splashing movement behind her.
The steamy air thickened perceptibly with the scent of his closeness and she knew without turning around that he was standing behind her.
“What will it take for you to learn that you cannot defy me?” he asked calmly, quietly. “And when will you realize that the source of your defiance is your own desire?”
“Let me go back,” she gasped. “Please … let me go back.”
She heard him take a deep breath and release it slowly. “I think not, my lady. I think I would know what it was you did for Sir Hubert so gladly … so willingly … and with such great pleasure. And I think you have some curiosity to know if what he did in return was worth such a valiant defense of his memory.”
“No,” her voice was barely a whisper. “No, I have no such curiosity.”
“You have no skill in telling lies either,” he murmured.
The long, tanned fingers worked without seeking assent of any kind to unfasten the bands of her wimple and uncover the golden skeins of her hair. The fat, gleaming braids were uncoiled and the strands separated, combed into a rich spill of silk-soft curls by hands that worked reverently at their pleasure. Servanne stood motionless, frozen with shock. Her skin flamed outwardly, while inwardly her body pulsated with a sensation not unlike a million shards of icicles melting downward into the ground.
Once her hair was freed and tumbling below her waist, the Wolf’s hands sought the clasp that bound the wide girdle of intricate gold links around her slender hips. Servanne’s hands fell, out of some last desperate attempt at salvation, and for a moment they did win the attention of the hard, lean fingers, but then they moved again and the girdle slipped to the ground, and Servanne’s fingers were left trembling over empty air.
The laces binding the gown of sea-green velvet were unthreaded with deliberate care; the shoulders and sleeves peeled away and the skirt encouraged to crumple into the swirling eddies of mist. All that remained was the long, shapeless white silk sheath she wore as an undergarment, and the dextrous fingers indulged in a lengthy hesitation before riding lightly down the slippery outline of her hips and thighs.
Servanne’s hands clutched at the vines of ivy as she felt him take up the hem of her sheath and raise it above her knees. Each stocking was painstakingly rolled from knee to ankle, then removed along with her dainty pointed slippers. By now, the liquid heat that had warmed her in the courtyard was all but paralyzing her. Her body was alive with coiling, shifting sensations. Her thighs trembled, the flesh bridging them grew achingly hot and throbbed with expectations that both mortified and thrilled her.
“When you are ready, my lady,” he murmured. “Our bath awaits.”
Servanne squeezed her eyes tightly shut, willing away the waves of sinful pleasure his voice evoked. It was not right. It was not possible. It was unthinkable that she should turn around, turn away from the opening in the ivy she could see so clearly only a pace