Chapter 8

A jax had never been so happy to see someone so completely changed in such a short period of time.

Oh, Winifred wasn't transformed into someone she was not. Quite the contrary, she was transforming into someone that she was. He could see it bit by bit. And he loved it. Oh, how he loved it.

Though he had only been allowed to be around her for a short period of time, the Winifred he had met in St. James's Park versus the Winifred he had met at the ball, well, they were already a world apart. This Winifred here at an inn full of people in Stratford-upon-Avon? She was a vivid character.

Shakespeare himself would have been thrilled to write her down.

Oh, how Ajax adored her.

Winifred sat on the long wooden bench, a tankard of ale in hand, grinning.

Now, he had warned her not to smile too prettily, for if she did, everyone would guess that she was a girl and not a boy. But Winifred seemed to have a talent for acting as a lad. Perhaps it was her blunt nature. Perhaps it was her desire to say whatever it was that came into her head—a generally male feature that was not approved of in ladies. She sat, legs splayed and elbows on the table, laughing deeply.

And her eyes? Oh how they shone! She wasn't tipsy, but she appeared drunk on the joy of life. And that was the best sort of drunkenness there was. How could he not share in it? He wanted to share in it always. And he never wanted this feeling to end.

The entire evening could not have been more perfect.

There was a fiddle playing in the background, a marmalade cat sat by the fire, and maids traveled back and forth, carrying large trays of drinks. The whole room smelt of good food, fresh bread, straw, and ale.

The inn had likely been here for as long as the town had boasted travelers. They were staying here and would stay here for, as the itinerary told him, at least two days. He wondered why Winifred had chosen Stratford-upon-Avon. It seemed an odd choice. He leaned forward and asked, "Why this place, Winifred?"

She took a drink of frothing ale, wiped her mouth, and said, "Because I want to see if I can feel it."

His brow furrowed. "What?" he asked.

She cleared her throat and leaned forward conspiratorially as if she was about to say something quite shocking. "Shakespeare," she whispered.

He blinked. "I beg your pardon."

She nodded and said quite earnestly, "I want to see if there's still some trace of him here. You see, he was such a great man. The feel of his past was so large that, surely, I will feel something here, some connection to him."

It was tempting to let out a sigh. But how could he? Her heart was so bloody pure. "You're a dreamer, aren't you?"

She tsked. "I am not. I'm extremely practical," she said, lifting the tankard again and taking a drink.

She was practical, but in her heart of hearts, she was a romantic who had been crushed. And she was looking for that crushed spirit…here. And he realized she wasn't aware of that yet.

He lifted his tankard. "To finding the spirit of Shakespeare."

She beamed. "Huzzah," she replied and took a sip.

She was alive and unfettered for the first time in her entire existence. Her cheeks were an apple red, like a proper English lad's, and her eyes danced. The fire crackled across the room, and though it was coming towards summer, there was still a slight chill in the evening air.

"Do you think it is time we should go up then?" he said. "To prepare for the day? I recall that we are getting up quite early."

"Oh, yes," she said. "You did read your itinerary, didn't you?"

He laughed. "Indeed, I did. A walk along the river," he said. "And then we are to explore the town and look for Mr. Shakespeare's place of birth."

She nodded. "Exactly so."

And with that, he started to hold his hand out to her, to be the perfect gentleman. She gave him a terse look and he winced.

"Forgive me," he said.

And with that, he clapped her so hard on the back that she nearly bounced her face off the table. She coughed.

"Forgive me," he said again in a low whisper, thrusting his hand through his hair. "I find I am waffling back and forth in how I should treat you," he said under his breath.

"Quite all right," she assured, tugging at her cravat. "I'm growing accustomed to it myself."

She stood then, brushed off her hands, and followed him through the large crowd. She walked with a boldness to her step, a bounce even, that he admired. They headed out into the hall and then up the stairs. He watched her walk up those stairs, rather amazed by the way her breeches tightened. They were staying in the same room. There was no reason not to, and it was a crowded night.

It was a room with two beds, so there was no need for him to sleep on the floor in a fit of chivalry. He was grateful for that because he didn't like sleeping on floors. He was capable of it, of course, but who really liked sleeping on wooden boards?

They entered the room, which was quite a cozy affair with a fire crackling. Wine had been laid out, as had a carafe of water, more bread, fruits, and some cheese.

She threw herself down into a chair before the fire and let out a sigh of contentment.

"Poor ladies," she lamented.

He turned to her. "Poor ladies?" he checked, eager for her clarification.

"That they should never know this sort of freedom," she exclaimed. "Do you feel like this all the time?"

He shook his head, crossing to her. As he did so, he shrugged out of his coat and slung it across his bed. "I don't follow."

She pursed her lips. "Well, I mean, the ability to take up space, even when one is sitting. Look at all the space I can take up."

And she did. She moved back and forth in the chair, moving her legs about, adjusting her arms.

He grinned. "If I'm honest, I've never really thought about it."

She scowled. "It's because you don't have to think about it. It's just natural to you."

He began to roll his shirt sleeves up, and he noticed the way her gaze slipped to his forearms. It pleased him, for he could feel her admiration.

"Yes, likely so," he replied.

He sat down across from her, gazing at her face as it was bathed by the warmth of the fire. His boots stretched out and touched hers. She gazed down at their shoes touching, and then her eyes came to his face.

"Men are allowed so much more freedom," she said.

"Freedom in many ways," he agreed as he began to untie his cravat.

"Freedom to know themselves," she said as she watched him work the pressed linen. "Freedom to explore, freedom to feel so many things. Freedom to undress without concern… Freedom to touch."

His heart began to hammer then and he let his cravat fall to the floor. The moment ignited for him. The spark between them transformed to flame. Something had occurred. Some transformation this day. An understanding that what was between them was no small thing.

She held out her hand, lifting it, her palm out, and he lifted his to hers. Touching. Doing what a man was free to do.

He placed his palm against hers and immediately thought of the lines from Romeo and Juliet that spoke of kisses and palms. And in that moment, he wanted to kiss her so badly because he could see her revelations, her awakenings, upon her face, and he wanted to be a part of it. Would she let him? Would she think him a total rogue?

Her lips parted and her eyes bloomed with desire.

"I didn't set out," she began, her voice rich with hunger, "to want something more than just your companionship. But I think you knew in the park that I'd want something more, didn't you?"

"When all the rules get thrown away," he explained softly, "everything changes, and you discover that you're allowed to want things."

She gasped. "Allowed to want things," she echoed as if his words had unlocked some great force within her. "Oh, Ajax," she said, "there it is. I've never been allowed to want things beyond my lot in life. And my lot is a very good one. I shouldn't complain about it."

He interwove their fingers. "It's all right to say how you feel, Winifred. You're allowed to want more than what you have. You're allowed to chafe at your bonds," he said. "Because no creature should live behind bars and be told to sing with joy about it."

She seemed terrified but moved by his words. She bit her lower lip, then asked, "But what if being free comes at a cost?"

He searched her face, determined to make her see. See how wonderful she was and how much awaited her. He lowered his lips to the back of her hand, kissing it in a gentle caress before he returned his gaze to hers. "Everything comes at a cost. Prisoners wither away and die. Free people may get hurt, but at least they live."

In that moment, he felt it. Her chain began to break. The chain which had locked her away. The chain which had forced her to live so small for so long.

She nodded. "Then show me," she urged. "Show me how to live. Show me how to be truly and fully alive, how to break my bonds, and how to live like you do. I want to know. I want to explore. I want to have it all. I thought I wouldn't, but I do. Oh, how I do. I want you." She lifted their twined hands to her cheek. "I never expected to, and it's frightening because by all the rules of propriety, we've only just become acquainted."

"It doesn't matter," he said, in awe of her tender touch. "Acquaintance doesn't change anything. From the moment we met, my spirit remembered yours. And yours remembered mine," he said. "And they always have. And they always will."

"Like the myth claimed… Our halves have been made whole?"

Yes, that was it. There was no denying it. They had both been going about the world searching for a missing part of themselves and now they had found it. Here in a room at an inn right in the center of Stratford-upon-Avon.

And with that, he pulled her toward him and felt his heart expand because this? This was what he had wanted. From the moment he saw her in St. James's Park, with her pert face and practical nature and determination and words that came at a mile a minute, he'd known that this was exactly what he was racing towards.

Her. He'd always been racing towards her.

And he was so grateful that she wasn't going to hold herself back, that she wasn't going to deny herself to him, and that she understood that in her heart of hearts, this is what she had truly wanted all along—to give herself freely.

And now he would give himself.

A mixture of excitement and nerves swirled through Winifred. Was she truly doing this? Yes, she was. She no longer wanted to live half a life. Half a life? She'd not even lived a quarter. Everything had been so narrow, so colorless, and any time she'd been herself and gone beyond the bounds of society, she'd been yanked back, scolded, and shamed.

She was finished with shame.

So she boldly gazed at Ajax and as he pulled her across the short distance, she sat upon his lap without a thought. She was not going to wait passively anymore. No, she was going to seize life with all her might and drink it in.

"No hesitating now, Ajax. I want to throw myself into this."

His gaze leapt with desire. In fact, his whole body seemed to crackle with hunger now. He lifted her hands and linked them around his neck.

She let out a shuddering breath as her body seemed to spark to life. The feel of him against her was so remarkable that she could scarcely think.

His strong legs pressed into her bottom, and she felt the ridge of his sex against her.

She bit her lower lip. What would happen next?

He reached up and unpinned her wig, eased it off, and then let it fall to the floor.

He uncoiled her hair slowly, and she was shocked by the intimacy of it. He slid his fingers through her locks and then he went to work on her clothes.

He grinned as he slipped each item free. "This is most unusual," he teased.

"The whole thing is unusual, isn't it?" she breathed.

"Oh, yes. In the best possible way," he growled.

And when he had her linen shirt up and over her head, he gazed at the fabric binding her breasts. Slowly, reverently, he unwound the linen, and once her breasts were freed, he let out a low rumble of appreciation.

He skimmed the back of his hand over the swells, then he took one in hand, cupping it. He teased his thumb over her nipple before bending his head and taking it into his mouth.

She let out a gasp and arched against him. He circled his tongue over her nipple, which grew hard with his attention.

She panted for breath as he teased her other breast.

As if he could wait no longer, he lifted his mouth, studied her lips, and then kissed her. Slowly, languorously, as if he could memorize everything about her in that exchange of mouths.

She held tightly to him, surrendering all her reason, all her logic, and that voice in her head which felt fear.

She was done with fear. She had to be if she was going to survive.

She grasped at his shirt and pulled it from his breeches. A low groan of approval passed his lips, and he leaned back so she could whip it over his head.

The feel of his velvety skin against hers was sheer bliss. She savored his heat, his strength, the power of his sinew against her own soft body.

She skimmed her fingertips over every ridge, every valley, every hard line.

And each touch only fanned her desire, making her long for more.

He urged her up, his movements growing more intense as his own desire seemed to build.

He inched her breeches and boots off until she stood naked before him.

"Glorious," he whispered.

And she felt glorious before him.

He trailed his hands between her breasts, over her ribs, down her stomach, then over her hips. His fingers paused at the juncture between her legs, and then he pulled her back onto his lap and slid his fingers between her thighs.

The jolt of pleasure that shot through her was astonishing as he found her wet heat. Somehow, he knew exactly where to touch her to cause her body to respond in ways she'd never imagined. Those fingers of his worked a primal magic and soon she was straining, holding tight to him, desperate for something that seemed just out of reach.

She gasped for air and wiggled her hips.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let yourself have this. Let me give it to you."

And as if his words were the final stroke, her entire body coiled and released. A pleasure so intense coursed through her and sent her thoughts flying.

He did not stop stroking her until every last bit of pleasure had traveled through her, and then he kissed her softly.

"Now the adventure truly has begun," he growled against her lips.

She'd been waiting for this, for him, her entire life. "What about you?"

"Me?" he queried, his voice rough with passion.

"Surely, you…"

"This is enough," he growled.

"Enough? I am done with enough," she countered. "I want it all."

"We should wait."

"No," she whispered. "I have waited my entire life. Do not make me wait again."

His eyes widened and he hesitated for a single moment. But then he picked her up in his arms and laid her down before the fire, stretching her out.

He pulled off his breeches and rested beside her.

"Touch me," he urged. "Touch me as you will."

She did not need further prompting, for as strange as all this was, she felt a power she'd never known.

Winifred sat up, studying his long form, and just from the touch of her gaze, his body seemed to respond.

His hard sex bobbed against his hip.

She swallowed and then slowly traced her hand over his muscled abdomen. She held his gaze, finding encouragement there and a vulnerability that shocked her.

He was giving her power. He was so comfortable in himself he had no issue with letting her do as she willed.

Mirroring his earlier actions, she leaned down and began to kiss his chest. She traced her mouth over his hot skin, tasting him, teasing him.

He laced his hands into her hair, and she boldly stroked her hand over his hip and then dared to touch his sex.

It pulsed in her grip, and she gasped. The hard length of it filled her hand and she traced her fingers over the head, surprised to find a drop of his desire there.

He lifted his hips off the floor.

"Teach me," she whispered. "Teach me what it means to be with you."

His gaze filled with emotion then and he rolled her onto her back.

"If it is too much, you must tell me," he whispered.

She was ready for too much. She longed for it, but she nodded.

He placed his sex along her opening.

She grabbed hold of him then, for it felt so…odd and yet she wanted it. Instinctively, her body called for his.

Gently, he entered her, taking his time.

She stilled, trying to make sense of the new experience.

His own face was a mask of restrained passion as he braced himself on his hands.

But then he began to rock slowly back and forth.

For a moment, she felt a twinge of pain, and she felt certain this whole endeavor was a ludicrous thing. It lasted but a moment and then? Her body seemed to open to him, and she smiled. This was what her body was meant for. And it was certainly meant to do this with him.

At the transformation of her expression, he leaned down, enfolded her in his arms, and began to thrust, long and slow and deep.

Each thrust sent her mind dancing and her body reaching. It took only a little time and soon she was matching his movements. She did not think. She did not worry. No, she simply surrendered to the ancient call of two bodies moving as one.

It was utter perfection! She held onto him, not out of fear or desperation or need, but because with her body aligned with his, she could forget the world. There was only the two of them.

There was only bliss.

He took her mouth again, their kiss hot and wild. Their breaths entwined, and their hearts beat as one. And suddenly everything vanished as she was cast into pleasure.

He tensed against her and shuddered, crying out her name against her lips. She rippled around his hard sex and let go. Let go entirely.

And the world spun into paradise.