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his outrage. Both boiled in his gut. But lust meant Jem held power over Alan, and he would not allow such a thing. The charmer would not get away with stealing from him. He wouldn't let the man take his possessions or the uneasy peace he'd found when he'd decided to end his own life.
    Cursing, Alan went for him again and grabbed his arms, hard, wiry flesh under his hands. Jem was a slippery fish, twisting and pulling. He'd obviously been grabbed before, and Alan had a flash of a life spent escaping from clutching hands. No sympathy, he warned himself. He'd treated the man well, fed him, and was rewarded with thievery.
    Jem had escaped. His chest rose and fell fast, and he pushed his overlong hair from his eyes as he backed toward the door with cautious steps, like a man escaping a wild animal. Yes, thought Alan, I am an animal. He'd have to get the man before he escaped. But now Jem was against the dark wood of the door, reaching for the handle.
    Alan threw himself at him, and they tumbled to the floor. Limbs entwined, scrabbling, grunting as Alan tried to get on top of him and hold him down, and… But suddenly he was on his back. The smaller, slighter man straddled his chest, knees holding his arms pinned. Good God. Alan had been trained to fight. He could kill a man with his bare hands and had more than once. Where had he gone wrong? He knew the answer, of course. He hadn't gouged Jem's eyes or thrust an elbow into his throat.
    The rage at Jem had been exhilarating; he'd felt life pouring through him, but now the fury turned inward. His soft nature hadn't allowed him to escape the army and war with his spirit unscathed. And now again he'd proved he couldn't be ruthless enough to stop this undernourished rat from defeating him.
    “Alan. Sir.” Jem shifted. He held Alan's wrists with his hands now, and he peered down at him. “You still wanta kill me?”
    Alan didn't bother to answer the wretch. He was too aware of the strong hands encircling his wrists, and it wasn't fear that touched him. He wanted those hands, with their scrapes and scars, to move down his arms.
    “You look fair grim, sir. Get mad. Suits you better.” The light bantering manner had returned. It only served to make Alan feel sick and foolish to think he'd fallen under the spell of the man.
    Jem leaned close enough so Alan could smell the brandy and peach on his breath. “I shouldna done that. Stolen from you.” So close, the moisture and heat of his mouth feathered Alan's skin just below his ear, and his body prickled with anticipation. Damn and blast, the arousal created shivers in his belly, hardening his cock.
    “No, goddamn you, you shouldn't have.” With a mighty heave, Alan threw Jem off, twisting hard to the side at the same moment. Jem flew and landed on his back. He missed the carpet, and his head made a loud thwack on the bare, polished wood floor.
    Alan rose to his feet, ready for more, but the other man didn't move. Shit. Alan dropped to his knees. No more death. Not Jem.
    Of course not. This was a sham. Alan shook his shoulder. “Come on, you bastard. Wake up.”
    He sat back on his heels and glanced around the room, searching for brandy, but the glass was empty. Damnation. He put his hand on Jem's bare shoulder, gently now. Stroking down to the tender skin of his inside arm. He couldn't trust the man, didn't think he could leave him alone in any room of the house, but he still desperately craved his touch.
    “Come on, Jem. Open those eyes.”
    Lust didn't mean a blessed thing. He swallowed hard. He'd ignore the dismay he'd felt when Jem's head had hit the floor with a sickening thud, just as he'd ignore his relief when he saw Jem's eyelids flutter.
    “Ow.” The younger man groaned. “Aw, God's ballocks. I fucked myself royally, din' I?” No more imitating his betters.
    Alan's chest expanded with his sigh. A dull pain lifted as he exhaled breath. “You're a fool,” he said, and realized he still touched the man's arm.
    “That