Disclaimer: I do not own these character. They belong to Michael Crighton and Paramount pictures, etc. I'm only borrowing them for a bit. No harm done, really. Please do not sue me. Savvy?
Author's note: Yes, I realize for an Andre/Claire shipper, I am very cruel to them. But who knows, perhaps I will write more, and get Andre in there, and let him win over Oliver at last. The ending of this is left very open, and it is up to the reader to decide if it's dream, or if it really happened. Up to you. For now at least. Please review!
I know you're still there
watching me wanting me
I can feel you pull me down
fearing you loving you
I won't let you pull me down
watching me wanting me
I can feel you pull me down
saving me raping me watching me
His hands were warm against her skin, stroking her stomach in an almost gentle way. But he was still too rough to be gentle, she knew that. His lips were demanding, as always, forcing her to respond, making her focus only on him, only on they bodies joined together. His eyes were triumphant yet dark, like gray storm clouds. His voice, hard and husky, yet still it caressed her practically as he groaned from the pleasure that was building within them.
She moaned herself, clutching him with her limb, holding him to her despite everything. She whimpered and moaned and dug her nails into his back as she came, as he brought her to the blissful end of their dance. She felt him shudder and release as well, his loud groan sending her further into the fire, and she screamed his name.
Claire jerked up in her bed, panting and sweating and cold. And empty. She could feel her heart pounding and she thought for a moment it would burst out of her chest it was beating to hard. She shivered and pulled her thin covers closer. Brushing her matted hair away from her face, she found her body was covered in a thin layer of sweat, despite how cold she was now.
But she had been experiencing this so often now, it barely made an impact. Every night she had that dream, every night since the eve of the French's victory over England. Over Oliver. Every night since he had taken her, claimed her innocence, virginity as his. He had died with that victory at least.
She lie back down, sighing and clutching her body, hugging herself as she tried to block out the dream. She thought of Andre, of how it should have been him that had taken her first, how it should be him she dreamt of now, how he would be crushed and outraged if he ever found out.
She really shouldn't have such dreams in the first place, but after her, encounter with Oliver that evening, she decided any woman would be hard pressed to avoid such thoughts or dreams.
But now, not even five days from her wedding to Andre, she was dreaming of another man, of making love to him. It had been over a month now, a month since his, defeat. His death.
Her brother had noticed how she reacted whenever Oliver's name was mentioned, more than Andre. Andre had always thought she was simply uneasy hearing about the man that almost hanged her. But her brother, Arnaut, he knew her better. He knew there was more to it. But he mercifully never pushed the subject.
Perhaps she should simply confide to him what had happened, tell him what troubled her so. But she wanted so hard to forget, to pretend it didn't happen, that she never gave in to that desire. She wanted to be free of him, free of the longing.
She loved Andre, she knew that. But she belonged to Oliver.
"No!" she hissed, shaking her head fiercely. "He's dead, he's gone, and he will not have any hold on my from the grave," she declared softly. "He's dead."
Claire gasped. She knew that voice, whispering from the other side of the room. She knew that accent, tainting it, the haughty, self-assured tone. But it was impossible. She looked around the dark room, but saw not a soul.
"You're losing your mind," she told herself, lying back down, clutching the covers closer to her. She curled up into a fetal position and closed her eyes. All she wanted was a night's peace, sleep without dreams, memories without him. "He's dead." she knew she must have stated those words thousands of times each night, assuring herself she was free. Or perhaps, no. She loved Andre. She did, she knew she did.
But for Oliver, she did not know how she felt. Lust, perhaps. But not love. She did not, could not love the English lord.
"Still as defiant as ever, Lady."
Claire's eyes shot open. She felt strong arms wrap around her, gripping her tightly and she struggled, trying to break free from his grasp.
"Hush, hush, Lady Claire," came his voice, Oliver's. "You will cause yourself harm if you keep this up." He turned her over onto her back, and she looked up at the familiar face of the man that had plagued her since her had taken her.
"Oliver," she whispered, dumbfounded. "But, how? You're dead, Arnaut killed you," she stated, but he merely sneered.
"Your brother does a horrible job of killing, Lady," he taunted. "Besides, perhaps I am only another dream, coming to haunt you yet again, although from the moans and whimpers you cried in your sleep, I think I did a very pleasurable haunt." His fingers stroked her cheek, then trailed down her neck, between her breasts, down to her stomach before she grabbed his wrist.
"Don't." She tried to sound commanding, but she knew how pleading her tone came out. She watched him smile almost kindly at her, moving his hand back up to her cheek, cupping her face.
"Claire, lovely, strong Claire," he whispered, leaning down so that his lips brushed her forehead as he spoke. "You know you want this, as much as I do." He moved his mouth down to her own slightly parted lips, smiling as her breathing quickened. "As much as I do."
"I do not want this," Claire stated, her eyes meeting his stoically. "I never wanted this. This is nothing more than rape, and you know it," she told him.
Oliver's eyes darkened, his expression blank. He moved his hand to the back of her neck, pulling her up to him roughly. "Hardly rape, my dear, hardly rape. But if you insist, I can accommodate you," he practically spat at her, holding her roughly, tightly, possessively. "I could make you hurt for weeks, so afraid to be touched ever again that you would shrink away from your beloved Scot. I could create such a fear of men, they would think you mad."
Claire stared up at him, silent and terrified. She knew he spoke true, she knew he could do that and might have done so to others, or had his men do such things. But she knew he wouldn't, even if he tried. Because she would give in, she would want him.
Oliver sighed and let go of her, causing her to fall back onto the mattress. "But I will not rape you, Claire," he told her, something akin to regret in his tone. "I will not rape you." He stared down at her for several minutes, neither of them speaking. "Would you have me leave you to your beloved Scotsman? Do you think he can make you cry out like that, make you feel that way?"
Claire opened her mouth to reply, angered at how he spoke of Andre, sweet, kind, brave Andre, but Oliver silenced her, his mouth claiming hers. She moaned, melting against him. She tried to push him away, but she wanted this, he had been right, she wanted him.
"Still want me to leave?" Oliver asked smugly.
Claire looked up at him, trying to figure out how he was here, alive, with her. She had seen Arnaut kill him while she struggled to get free of her bonds, she had seen his corpse on the ground as they left, their backs to La Roque as it burned to the ground.
"You already left me," she replied. "You're dead."
"Am I?" he again asked her. "If I am, this is nothing but a dream and there are no consequences of letting me make love to you. But if it I'm not, then what does that mean?" He sat up, pulling her up as well. "Either way, you want me, you know it, and I know it." He kissed her, his hands roaming down her back, making her shudder in pleasure. "And either way, I obviously want you as well," he told her, pulling her onto his lap.
Claire gasped. Yes, he wanted her, that was certain. She watched silently, transfixed as he slowly, ever so slowly moved her nightgown off her shoulder. She closed her eyes, sighing as he kissed her shoulder.
His fingers gently pulled the gown up then, slowly slipping it over her until she sat there in front of him, bare and exposed to his heated stare. He leaned over and kissed her softly, his hand smoothing her hair back as he gently laid her down, resting on top of her. He bore most of is weight with his arms, now on either side of her as they kissed.
She determined this had to be a dream, for Oliver was not so gentle. He was dead, and she was dreaming again.
And in her dreams, she would give in, always. In her dreams, she let Oliver win, she cried out his name. And come morning, she would return to Andre yet again, to the one she truly loved.
Sunlight blinded Claire as she opened her eyes, yawning. She suddenly sat up, remembering last night. Looking around, she tried to see if there was any proof it had been real. She prayed it had all been a dream, it had to have been a dream.
A dream. Nothing more. Oliver was dead. He was dead and his body burned along with all the English soldiers killed that night as the flames overtook the fortress of La Roque. Oliver de Vannes was dead, never to return.
She saw nothing, no trace that anyone had come to her room last night. She slipped out of bed, and then she realized something. She was nude. Looking down on the floor, she saw her nightgown, lying in a crumpled pile far from the bed.
"No," she whispered. "It can't, he's dead." She hurriedly walked over and picked it up. "I must have done this," she told herself. "I did it." She put the gown back on, shivering, but not from the cool, morning air any more.
"Andre, forgive me," she cried softly. "I wish I could have you forgiveness." But he could never know, she would not let him know. She refused to let him know, she refused to believe Oliver was alive. It was impossible. It was too cruel.
"Andre will not know. At least, not yet."