A Most Unusual Interest

A Most Unusual Interest Chapter Thirty Six (NC-17)
Disclaimers Apply

A/N Goddess Foxfeather… I didn’t forget it, lol. Just got delayed… Readers/Reviewers: *ahem * I suck. I know. Beat me with wet noodles… *grovels *


The night had the mysterious tinge of white flowers and burning wood and sea air that only the Caribbean could provide as Richard sank onto the floor of his rough hut. Days bled into weeks and into months lately. He could barely remember England, much less his life before the change. He knew some things were true, like the fact he had a well respected position and there had been rumors that the king himself had considered a knighthood for him, but he did notw whw who the king was, much less of which country. He lowered himself onto his side, pushing his bundle of precious items towards the thick phalanx of shadows. Myrtle. The name was the one thing that was forever clear to him. Myrtle… sister, lover, sacrifice. Like the old pagans, he thought, except with a woman rather than a man, a female offering rather than a male. He laughed thinly, rolling onto his back. Dull little Port Royal, thrown into his lap, dull little unassuming Port Royal…
The taste of bile and sand and something alcoholic coated his tongue and mouth and throat but he did not care. He knew it would pass and he would go on. His eyes focused and found the sliver of moon in the sky, his heart starting to pound erratically in his chest. It was not long now. The ancient stars were coming into their houses as they should and the tide was rising as it had for millennia… The power would come and he would be whole. Myrtle, he tasted the name in his mind before uttering it, a dry murmur in the still night air. “Myrtle,” he repeated, smiling. It tasted sweet, like honey. She would fight, he knew, she would cry out and strike and use everything she knew from mundane to the dark things she learned at her mother’s knee, but he would be the one crowned in the end.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and counted to ten a bit faster than she knew would be helpful. She still could not calm her racing heart. “Will, listen to me,” she said in a strangely calm, firm voice. “I’ve sent for the physician. You’re going to be fine.”
Will nodded but did not speak. He was waxen and pale, his skin cool and damp as his breath came in short, sharp gasps. His eyes would not focus, despite his best efforts, and he could not look at Elizabeth for more than a second, a fleeting moment of time.
She turned away as the door opened, letting her grief and panic show for only the briefest of moments as the old physician was ushered in by the harried maid. “Thank God,” she breathed, seeing his bag. “I’m not sure what he had but I think… I think…”
The doctor brushed her aside as he sat next to Will. “We need to bleed him. Best remedy there is for blood toxins.”
Elizabeth blinked, then felt a wave of nausea crash over her as the doctor pulled the items needed for the grisly remedy from his leather case. Will’s eyes were wide and his jaw worked but he could not protest. She snapped out of her horror to demand the doctor cease. “No! You will not drain my husband of his life’s blood in some hasty attempt at healing just so you can go home and back to bed!”
The physician stood, towering over her. “His pulse is strong and he will survive a small letting. It is the only way to clear his system. Bleed him then administer a purgative.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No!”
“What did you think I would do, child, being told a man had been poisoned? Each second you yammer at me is one second less he has to live!” The doctor turned away from her pointedly and ordered the made to bring him a shallow bowl.
Elizabeth shuddered and felt guilt assail her. Will did not want this, she knew. She could tell. But he had so little time and so much had passed… She went to his side and took the hand the doctor was not holding. “Will, I’m sorry… I promised to take care of you once and I’ve failed. I promise…” She leaned closer to whisper urgently, “I promise that I will find the man who came here and I mak make him regret ever setting eyes on us.”

Myrtle presser far face to the bars in the ersatz window. “Here I am… in jail again…” she sighed.
Jack sighed and pulled his hat over his face, blocking out the torchlight as he lay on the floor. “This time,” he pointed out gruffly, “you have company.”
Myrtle was not amused. She began pacing agitatedly the narrow breadth of the cell, stepping over Jack’s booted feet on each pass. Her sea-soaked clothes had been replaced by the jailers with an over-large day dress someone had found in a box of old clothes destined for the poor house. It smelled, she thought disgustedly, of tobacco and sweat and something more earthy and less pleasant than simple h odo odor. “We need to get out of here!” she cried in exasperation after several silent minutes. “Jack, do something!”
He pushed his hat back and peered up at her, his dark eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Give it a moment, love, and all will be well.” He was on his feet before she could respond, towering over her and pressing her against the bars. “Just lend a hand like a good girl,” he murmured, smiling faintly.
“Pardon me?” she whispered, the rush of heat to her belly and limbs making her feel suddenly weak.
“I need leverage…”
Myrtle chided herself for finding that phrase so…alluring. “Again… pardon me?”
Jack grinned and turned her bodily to face the bars. “Grab on here and here,” he showed her. “An old friend showed me a trick to these things…”