Elisha Rex by E.C. Ambrose

in spite of the huge hearth at his back, and he took a swallow.
    â€œThe part about the laying on of hands, that was brilliant!” She beamed, settling onto the bench opposite, leaning a little forward. “I don’t think Hugh ever supported the claim. He just gave out little trinkets meant to carry his healing. But to convince the archbishop! A masterstroke.”
    Elisha gave a startled laugh, and made a show of kneeling to jab at the fire. She thought he had made his elevation happen. Was it better for him if she believed it? He withdrew his emotions to the skin, and deeper—she would expect as much, if she came close enough to touch him. “A holy man is always eager to find a miracle.”
    â€œTo be honest, Elisha, I wouldn’t have thought you had this in you. Any of it. You never seemed eager for power.”
    â€œA man is a fool who doesn’t take what he’s offered.”
    She laughed, low and thrilling, and Elisha closed his eyes, still kneeling before the fire as at a pagan altar. Offering indeed. He let his awareness encompass her as she spoke. “My mother wanted a witch upon the throne, to change the course of England. We always imagined it would be me.”
    Elisha replaced the poker carefully and came to the table, sinking into the chair at its head. Firelight deepened her red-gold hair and put a blush upon her cheeks and throat, and he did not know what to say.
    Brigit frowned a little. “What are your plans, Elisha?”
    He laughed again, the combination of strain and wine and her nearness making him feel almost as giddy as if he had worked magic all day long. “Plans? I have none, but hopes in plenty. I hope I live to survive whatever barons come to challenge me. I hope that France takes just long enough in getting here that we can find a way to counter their attack. After that, I hope the barons don’t retaliate too strongly for the peasant revolts.” He ruffled his hands through his hair, wincing as his shoulder gave a hint of pain from the needle’s prick, then letting his hands fall back to the table.
    â€œMmm.” She reached out her pale fingers, their nails smoothly rounded, and stroked the back of his hand, tracing the scar, then let her hand curve gently into his with a tantalizing warmth. “There’s so much to think on, love,” she murmured. “I never imagined.”
    Caution urged him to withdraw his hand, but the contact would reveal her just as well—probably more so. “I’d prefer your honesty.” If she had any.
    The purr left her voice, her grip tightening. “You’re not ready for this, Elisha. You don’t know what to do or how to do it. I’m not criticizing you—you’ve never been at court, you simply don’t know. You’ll look to Duke Dunbury and his lady—at least she’s a magus, but he’s always trying too hard to please the other barons. Ufford will give you all the advice you need about stately living and politics, but he’ll never understand where you’ve come from, what you’ve seen. And now you even have your own confessor?” She nearly laughed at that. “You want to live; I want that, too. I want our people to live peacefully and openly, Elisha, and your being here gives us that chance. Let me advise you, stay near you. Let us work together. I can bring the magi behind you; even without magic, we have influence in so many places. Gloucester and Mortimer are against you—we can deal with that. You need not rule in fear.” Her thumb stroked over his hand, radiating comfort.
    â€œHow would you deal with it?” he asked carefully. “By killing them? That would have been Alaric’s way. Or was he no more than your path to the throne?”
    This time her face flushed from within—the emotions of pregnancy getting the better of her usual control. Elisha smiled inwardly, grateful for any