Darcy looked up at Jane, a deep blush coloring his face and more than likely his entire body. “Who undressed me?”

Jane, still holding the boxer shorts, dropped her hand to her side. Taken aback by the question she could only respond, “I beg your pardon?”

The blush receding Darcy asked again, “Undressed me, who did it?”

Jane looked at him, unable to say anything.

“Miss Austen?” he nudged.

Still not sure how to respond, she said, “I have six brothers.”

“And none of them lives here.”

She stood looking into the depths of his green eyes; she saw embarrassment and anger. He’d been brought into her house bleeding; it had seemed perfectly natural to get him out of his dirty clothes. How many times had she helped her mother do the same with one of her brothers? But now she questioned the propriety of having done so to a perfect stranger. She wasn’t prepared to admit it. But he wasn’t going to let her escape so easily.

“You did it, didn’t you?” he challenged.

Now she felt the heat rise in her own face as her cheeks went crimson. No longer able to withstand his penetrating stare she looked away, but couldn’t hide a small smile at the memory of his strong, athletic body.

For what seemed many minutes but was actually only a few seconds an embarrassed silence fell on the room. In the hope of changing the subject Jane turned to anger. “I demand that you tell me who you are and where you come from.”

“I’m not sure you’re in any position to be making demands,” was his own angry reply.

Her tone turned serious. “You must explain yourself to me now, sir, else I must think you a spy.”

Darcy stared at her. “A spy? Who would I be spying on?”

Jane’s expression did not change. “It is no secret that our two countries have many quarrels and have often been at war,” she said. “Even now American ships continue the illegal trade in slaves and supply our French enemies with cannon and munitions…”

Again Darcy felt like slapping his head at his own stupidity. This was 1810, the era of the Napoleonic Wars between Britain and France. Wars in which the new, maverick American nation had sided firmly with France.

“I am not a spy,” he said weakly. “Okay?”

A flash of anger shone in Jane’s dark eyes. “Okay!” she mimicked the strange new word. “What does that mean? I speak several languages and the word okay is not included in the vocabularies of any of them.”

Darcy suddenly swung his feet out of the bed, realizing that he was on increasingly shaky ground with this lovely but dangerous woman. He stood and held out his hand to her. “First let me have my clothes,” he demanded with as much dignity as he could muster.

Still holding his undergarment in her hand, Jane stood her ground for a moment. She wanted to know about the brass contraption that opened and closed his trousers, the buttons that looked like bone but were not, as well as the fabric he called elastic. She watched him and found that she was unwilling to revisit the uncomfortable scene regarding how she came to know about those things. Heaving a sigh she turned to the cupboard and retrieved his pants. Turning back to him, she wordlessly handed the items to him, then turned away as he slipped them on.

He sat on the bed and began pulling on his boots. “Okay is an American slang word,” he told her. “You are familiar with slang…made-up words from the people in the streets?”

“Yes, I understand your meaning,” she said, as he strode over to the cupboard and found his freshly laundered shirt folded neatly inside.

With his shirt in his hand he looked over at Jane who was still standing by the cupboard. She looked up into his haunting green eyes. He saw in her face a jumble of emotions. Although she was embarrassed by what had just passed between them, what he saw behind the anger was excitement, passion. He was enchanted once again by this wonderfully complex woman.

Finally finding his voice, he said, “Okay means all right, or fine,” he explained, pulling on more clothes and walking over to the window to look down at the empty village road junction.

“If you are a spy they could hang you.” It was a flat statement.

“I am not a spy!” he again insisted, turning back to her. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really know how I got here. As a matter of fact I’m not even sure where here is, though I’m pretty certain I’m a very long way from my own…home.”

He paused then, watching her eyes for some sign, realizing as he did how extraordinarily attractive she was, bearing not the slightest resemblance to the poorly done sketch of a frumpy sixteen-year-old that was the only known portrait of Jane Austen to have survived into his time.

“I’m very sorry that I deceived you,” he apologized again. “I was hoping to leave here quietly, recover my horse, and then try to find my way back—”

“Back to Virginia in—five hours?” Despite the obvious tone of her cynical question, Jane’s dark eyes were filled with evident curiosity.

“Oh God! Did I say that?”

She nodded slowly. “Along with many other strange and unexplainable things. Things you called phones and jets and some sort of telling vision.”

Darcy was shocked and disturbed to learn that he had managed to reveal so much in his brief unconscious state. “My God, were you taking notes?” he asked sarcastically.

“How can you explain all of these strange words and the devices that you carry with you,” she said, gesturing at his watch. “Like your watch that never needs winding. Virginia is but a few months, sailing time from England; surely such wonders could not long remain hidden from the world if they were not the tools of some secret and sinister mission…”

“Yes, you’re right,” he replied, cutting her off. Darcy paused for a minute, trying to think of some way to explain without making his position any more precarious than it was. “Very well,” he said after a moment, “I’ll try to explain if you’ll promise not to repeat what I’m going to tell you.”

Jane stiffened at the suggestion. “I shall make no such promise to protect your foul secrets,” she proclaimed.

Darcy glared at her in frustration. “Fine!” he retaliated. “Then let me tell you a few secrets about yourself, Miss Austen. At night, after you have removed your clothing and put on your nightgown, you sit at that dressing table by the fire to write. Often before you actually begin writing you carry on imaginary conversations between your characters, or wonder aloud how they might react to a lover’s intimate touch. You are presently working on a novel about five sisters who are all hoping to marry well. Two of them do in fact, but another one is seduced and deceived by an infamous scoundrel you’ve named Wickham.”

For a fraction of a second Darcy toyed with the idea of informing her that the hero of her romantic novel would be named Fitzwilliam Darcy. But he saw with grim satisfaction that his unexpected disclosures had hit home and he had no wish to reduce the effect. For Jane’s face had turned pale as he spoke and she’d stumbled a step backward, as though he had physically struck her.

“Sir,” she murmured resentfully, “you have been spying on me, and reading my most intimate private papers—”

“I have not read anything!” Darcy said coldly. “How could I when you never have more than a few sheets of your writings with you at any time and you never let them out of your sight?”

She turned away in confusion. “You…only think to confound me with more riddles,” she accused. “You cannot know what is in my book, which I am not yet finished writing.”

“But I do know,” he insisted, regretting the need to resort to such crude, bullying tactics but unable to think of any other way to keep her under control until he could find a way to escape from his dangerous situation. “We both have secrets we’d rather keep, Miss Austen, and I know some of yours. That is my only point,” he concluded.

He moved closer to her and spoke as gently as he could. “Now, if you will only listen calmly and with an open mind, I’ll try to explain myself to you. But I must have your pledge of secrecy.”

Pointedly stepping away from him, Jane walked to her vanity table and sat weakly in the chair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but once I’ve explained, I think you’ll understand my reasons.” He tried a reassuring smile on her. “If it makes you feel any better, I also happen to know that you’re an extremely gifted writer.”

Defeated by his disclosures, Jane shook her head. “Please, just tell me who you are,” she said wearily.

Before Darcy could reply, the bedroom door opened and Edward Austen walked in unannounced. His eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Darcy awake and fully dressed.

Jane immediately rose and went to her brother’s side.

“My dear Mr. Darcy,” Edward exclaimed with evident pleasure, “I came down to look in on you because Mr. Hudson reported that you were still abed. But happily I see that you are instead greatly improved. Excellent, sir! Excellent!”

“Yes, I’m feeling much better, a bit weak but definitely better,” Darcy replied, keeping a wary eye on Jane, who stood like a statue coldly regarding him from the sanctuary of her brother’s side. Darcy continued to Edward, “I was just thanking your sister for her great kindness in looking after me.”

To Darcy’s relief Jane curtseyed slightly in his direction. “You are most welcome, sir,” she murmured.

Edward was all smiles. “Well then, Darcy, you must move up to Chawton Great House. I insist upon it.” He moved to a window at the far end of the room and pointed out across the fields to a forest of chimneys and the top of a mansard roof rising above a line of distant trees. “My house is only a short journey away on the other side of the meadows that you see beyond that small wood,” he said proudly. “There you may complete your recovery in greater comfort whilst we continue our efforts to locate those friends of yours.”