Love in the Time of a Highland Laird (A Laird for All Time Book 3) Angeline Fortin (pride and prejudice read txt) 📖

“What? What is it?”

“Who ruled England after Henry the Eighth?”

“I’m sure ye ken it well enough, lass.” He caught her hand, stroking her fingers lightly. “What is it? Ye ken ye can tell me anything.”

She couldn’t tell him this. Without a doubt, no matter how openminded he was, he’d never understand. Hell, there were people in her own time who wouldn’t understand. Who would freak out if they thought such a thing were possible beyond the realm of science fiction.

She should have known, of course, what was happening. Looking back, there’d been signs enough. Animals coming through the portal none of them could identify. An odd bear. That cute little monkey as tiny as the palm of her hand she’d assumed must have been a lost species from Madagascar or something.

To her, it was a thrilling discovery even if it did herald the end of Fielding’s success for all time.

In Quantum Mechanics, it was called the many-worlds interpretation. In sci-fi, it was called an alternate reality. The birth of a new dimension for every yes or no, success or failure in the history of the planet. Another reality existed for each scenario. Millions and millions of versions of history coinciding in the same space, but veiled from each other.

Their project hadn’t only cast her through space and time, but had also pierced a dimension she hadn’t considered when explaining them to Keir. The portal had crossed the plane of reality, sending her to a version of history where Elizabeth the First had never ruled.

A part of her wanted to share the excitement with Keir, see his eyes light up with discovery as they invariably did, but she was fearful this one might go too far afield for him.

The idea that there were other realities happening, multiplying and existing where one was standing, was too much for the people she knew to accept. Scientists who rejected the idea, unable to take a theory like that as fact.

It would be worse than telling him about time travel or ships flying into space. There was a colossal chance he wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around the idea that other realities coexisted along side his own. That if the veil were to be pierced now, a dozen more versions of him might be pacing the room as he was at the moment. Or Hugh would be, having never left. He might be gone instead.

Al might never have come.

Such a shocking revelation might alienate him completely, no matter how progressive he thought he was.

She didn’t dare tell him.

But she had to tell him something.

He was gawking at her as if she’d grown two heads. She couldn’t have him think she was growing a third. Become inhuman in some way.

“I-I’ve just never realized before how utterly uneducated I am in the history of the world,” she said, once more glancing down at the map where the French colony of Quebec extended all the way down to New York… or New Amsterdam as the map said. The English only had the central Atlantic coast and the Spanish still held the Caribbean coastline.

Was all of that because Elizabeth hadn’t ruled? Or had it been something else?

“Ye’re lying tae me,” he said flatly. “Why?”

“I’m not,” she insisted. “I just never knew what a dunce I am in the liberal arts. It’s… embarrassing.”

God, she hoped he bought it. She didn’t. “I must have been thinking of a different country, I suppose. Who… um, who succeeded Henry the Eighth as king?”

“Al…”

“No, truly. I’m curious.” She turned to him, curling her fingers around the open collar of his shirt with a smile. A very forced smile. “Maybe it’s time for a little more quid pro quo. Your turn to become the teacher.”

He studied her silently for a long while. She was certain he was going to reject her explanation and demanded a better, more truthful response. Then much to her relief, he sighed and stepped away. Drawing her along with him, he sat in one of the wingback chairs and pulled her into his lap.

“Henry the Ninth, the son of Henry and Catherine of Aragon,” he said at last.

“Didn’t they have a daughter, too?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“Aye, Princess Mary,” he nodded. “There were other children as well. Many stillborn, a few who died in infancy. Henry had many mistresses, ‘tis nae rumor but fact. And a number of bastards including another Henry and the Elizabeth I believe ye were referring tae.”

“There weren’t… uh, I thought I read something about Henry the Eighth divorcing Catherine of Aragon.”

His blue eyes were sharp, piercing. “What is amiss, mo ghrá? ‘Tis nae like ye tae disremember anything ye’ve read.”

“We all have our failings,” she shrugged, “but being here now, I really feel as if I should know more about the recent history of the area.”

He knew she was lying. He knew she knew that he knew it too. Still, he gave her what she wanted, detailing the succession of the English crown from Henry IX down to the current George I. Not the second but the first. The Stuarts hadn’t claimed the crown until just fifty years past when King Charles III died without an heir just before the turn of the century. Scottish king at the time, James VII, had succeeded becoming James I of England more than a hundred years after the one she knew about.

It was a tumultuous time in the nation’s history. With Catherine of Aragon alive at the time of Henry VIII’s death—from a peptic ulcer in his leg caused by an injury he’d taken years before (some things didn’t change)—the Catholic queen regent had raised her son and daughter in her faith. There was no Church of England, just the growing discontent always broadening the gap between the Catholics and Protestants. Rather than accept the Catholic King James VII of Scotland to the throne, many had lobbied for George of Hanover to take the throne. It had been a civil