Kitabı oku: «The Historical Collection 2018», sayfa 14
His mind completed her interrupted thought in a dozen dangerous ways. Don’t be stupid, he told himself. She could have all manner of things to tell him. It could be anything.
I . . . have a pebble in my shoe.
I . . . want a pony.
I . . . would do murder for a cup of tea right now.
Very well, Emma would never say that last. Probably not the second, either. But she absolutely, positively was not going to say that other thing. The-Thing-That-Must-Not-Be-Named. Or Thought, or Uttered, or, heaven forfend, Hoped.
“Ash, I think I—”
His heart thrashed in his chest.
Get to it, woman. This is agony.
Instead of putting an end to his torture, his bride of convenience did the worst, most inconvenient thing.
She went limp in his arms, fainting dead away.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Emma could not have been insensible more than a few seconds, but by the time she came back to her surroundings, he had lifted her off her feet and into his arms. Her head was tucked against his broad chest, and he’d wrapped his cape about her shoulders. The familiar scent of him anchored her. Cologne, shaving soap, the leather of his gloves.
If he was still recovering strength in his injured arm, she would never have known it now. He held her in an iron grip and covered the ground in brisk, determined strides. Beneath the layers of his waistcoat and shirt, she could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong.
By contrast, she felt weak. She couldn’t seem to stop shivering.
“I’m better now,” she said, trying to brace her chattering teeth.
“No, you’re not.”
“You can put me down. I can walk.” She wasn’t certain she could walk for long, or in an especially straight line, but she would try. “It was only a wobble.”
He didn’t even deign to answer. He merely carried her down the way, until they emerged onto a wider street. He had not gone thirty paces before he kicked open a door and hefted her through it, ducking his own head and taking care to guard hers.
They’d entered some sort of inn, Emma gathered, piecing the observations together in her hazy mind. Not a fine sort of inn. Nor even a particularly clean sort of inn.
“Show us to a room.”
The innkeeper stared, slack-jawed, at the duke. A cluster of patrons drinking in the public room fell silent.
A woman emerging from a back room with two trenchers of stewed beef shrieked and dropped her cargo. “Jayzus.”
The duke had no patience for their gawking. He shifted Emma’s weight to his good arm and reached into his pocket with his free hand. Having fished out a coin, he tossed it onto the countertop. A gold sovereign. Sufficient tariff to let every bedroom in the inn for weeks.
“A room,” he barked. “Your best. Now.”
“Y-yes, milord.” The innkeeper’s hands shook as he retrieved a key from a hook. “This way.”
Ash insisted on carrying her as they followed the innkeeper up a steep, narrow staircase. The innkeeper showed them to a room toward the back. “Best room, milord,” he said, opening the door. “It even ’as a window.”
“Coal. Blankets. Tea. And be quick about it.”
“Yes, milord.” The door swung shut.
“This isn’t necessary,” Emma murmured. “We can surely take the carriage home.”
“Out of the question. At this time of night, with the theaters emptying, we could be stalled in the streets for an hour or more.” He still hadn’t put her down.
She craned her neck to look up at him. “That doesn’t matter. What’s an hour?”
“Sixty minutes too many,” he said testily. “You are wet, and you are cold. You don’t like being cold. Therefore, I despise you being cold. I would go about murdering raindrops and setting fire to the clouds, but that would take slightly more than an hour. Perhaps even two. So we’re here, and you will cease complaining about it.”
His words kindled a flame of warmth inside her. She closed her eyes and buried her face in his chest.
Thank you. You terrible, impossible man. Thank you.
The innkeeper returned, loaded down with the demanded items: a scuttle of coal and tinderbox, and a stack of folded wool blankets. “My girl will be up wi’ the tea directly.”
“Good. Now get out.”
“Milord, if I might ask a question, might you happen to be—”
Ash kicked the door shut. He drew the room’s lone chair away from the wall, and gingerly lowered Emma unto on it. “Can you sit? You won’t swoon again?”
“I don’t think so.”
He heaped coal in the hearth and packed the open spaces with tinder, then sparked an ember with the flint, blowing on it patiently until a true flame took hold. Then he turned to the blankets and unfolded one, inspecting the rough wool.
He flung it aside. “Filthy and hopping with fleas.” He looked about the room, though there was nothing much to see. “We’ll do it this way.”
He flicked the cape and spread it outside-down over the stained straw mattress. The heavy outer layer of wool had done its duty, preserving the lining from damp. The result was a bed of rich, glossy satin. Then he wrestled out of his topcoat and draped it over Emma like a blanket.
A knock at the door announced the arrival of tea. He took the tray and promptly shut the door in the serving girl’s face, rather than allowing her in to pour. Instead, he served Emma himself, squinting into the cup to assess its cleanliness before filling it with steaming tea, milk, and a generous helping of sugar. He withdrew a small flask from his waistcoat pocket, unscrewed the cap, and added a splash of something amber-colored, potent-smelling, and no doubt frightfully expensive.
Emma sat watching all this in silence, transfixed. Reason had fled her brain. His every motion struck her as some sort of acrobatic feat deserving of wild applause. Perhaps she truly was ill. Everything about him, each damp hair on his head and every speck of mud on his boots, was perfect in her eyes. She would not have changed a thing.
“Here.” He brought her the tea.
She moved to take it from him.
He moved it out of her reach. “Not while your hands are shaking.”
He lifted it to her lips, talking her through a series of hot, cautious sips. A sweet warmth traveled down her throat and swirled its way through her chest.
“There we are. That’s better, is it?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
After setting the tea aside, he extended a hand to Emma and drew her to her feet. Hands on her waist, he steered her through a half turn and reached to undo the buttons down the back of her gown.
“We have to get you out of all this,” he said. “If not, you’ll only soak the cloak through and we’ll never warm you up.”
Her quivering lips curved into a smile. “I’m beginning to suspect you planned this entire situation.”
“If I had, I would have found a finer inn and ordered a gown with larger buttons.” He ceased tugging. “To the devil with this. The cursed thing is ruined anyway.” He gripped the edges of the bodice and, with a fierce yank, ripped the buttons from their holes.
Mercy.
Emma reeled on her toes, dizzy again. Her vision grayed at the edges.
“I don’t know what’s happened to me,” she said, rubbing her temple. “I never swoon. Perhaps Mary laced the corset too tightly.”
“I’ll tell you what happened. What happened is that I stupidly let you stand in a freezing downpour, wearing nothing more than a few scraps of silk. You’re chilled to the marrow.”
She supposed that was true. But for a kiss like that, she would have gladly stood there all night long.
He worked quickly and with no hint of seduction, but the care he took in peeling away her layers of drenched clothing—silk gown, sodden petticoats, laced corset—stirred her heart with its tenderness. When his fingertips brushed the wet locks from her bared, chilled neck, she had goose bumps on top of goose bumps.
Once he had her down to her shift, he didn’t pause in kneeling down and gathering it from the hem, bunching the fabric as he lifted it upward.
“Arms up.” The command scorched the nape of her neck.
She obeyed, stretching her arms overhead. As he lifted the soaked linen further, the fabric brushed over her breasts. Her nipples had puckered to cold, resentful knots in the rain, but now they tightened with more pleasant sensations. At last, he drew the garment over her head and arms, casting it aside. Leaving her bare, save for her stockings.
He turned her to him, rubbing his hands up and down her arms and sweeping his gaze over her body. Then he unknotted his cravat with jerky movements and used the fabric as a makeshift towel, rubbing the moisture from her skin and hair.
As the fire threw weak light and smoldering heat into the room, she found a blush warming her neck and face. Her teeth had ceased chattering, and the gooseflesh covering her arms had begun to fade.
When she was cold, he warmed her. This alone was more care than she’d ever known from any man. It didn’t matter that it came wrapped in scowls and sardonic quips.
She loved him for it.
Loved him, loved him, loved him, loved him.
The words pulsed through her brain with every heartbeat. Surely it was the swoon affecting her, but she found it difficult to breathe. She clung to his shirt, as if he could be her salvation—but he was the danger. She was lost. Lost to him, and a stranger to herself.
When he’d done his best with the discarded cravat, he whisked her off her feet once more, moving her to the bed. As he laid her on his cape, the silk lining slid beneath her body. She burrowed under his coat while he pulled off his boots and shucked his damp trousers.
He settled behind her on the bed, spooning around her curled body, drawing her spine against his chest. He was hot as a brick straight from the kiln. His delicious warmth radiated through her, thawing and relaxing her limbs. Her shivering eased.
“You’re not cold anymore?”
“No.”
“Good.” The flat of his palm slid up and down her arm. “Then sleep.”
Her eyelids grew heavy. “Ash . . .”
“Sleep.” His arm flexed, gathering her tight. “I’ll keep you warm and safe. I’ll keep you always.”
For the second time in her marriage, Emma experienced the pleasure of waking in her husband’s arms. And the joy of finding her hair matted in a nest. And the bliss of a receding headache.
But yes, the arms. Waking in his arms was lovely.
She rolled onto her other side, facing him.
His gaze was tender, and his touch even more so. He skimmed a caress down her cheek, then down over her shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind her matted hair. Then his arm went around her, and he gave her a kiss that was every bit as sweet and gentle as the previous night’s was fierce and demanding.
When they parted, he sighed her name. “Emma.”
She touched his cheek. “Good morning, my sunshine.”
He sat up in bed with a start. “Look at us. How did this happen? I thought we agreed that there would be no affection.”
“We did.”
“We had rules.”
“There were precautions.”
The left side of his mouth pulled into a smile. “Not enough of them, apparently.”
Emma sat up in bed. “I want to apologize for the things I said last night. I should have had more faith in you. And I suppose I should be more charitable toward Miss Worthing. If you hadn’t cared enough for her feelings to let her go, I wouldn’t have you at all.”
“I have to admit, releasing her wasn’t merely generosity. Perhaps not even mostly generosity. Pride was involved, as well. She was still willing to marry me, but only if I agreed to certain stipulations. I wasn’t willing to accept her terms.”
“Did she want a larger settlement?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Then I can’t imagine what she could ask for. I spent time with her. She cared little for anything besides money and appear—”
“Appearances? Yes. Precisely.”
Emma cringed, regretting the word. Would she never learn?
“On reflection, I don’t suppose it’s accurate to call them stipulations,” he said. “If we married, she demanded that I agree to certain rules.”
“Rules?”
He didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. Spoke of pain and anger and a wound that went deeper than any of his scars.
Rules.
Oh, no.
She reached for her shift. “Surely you don’t mean—”
“Husband and wife by night only. No lights. No kissing. Once she bore me an heir, we would never share a bed again.”
At last, it was clear. It had never made sense to her that he would create such rules. He had all the power over her. Once they married, she was at his mercy. Why would he care about protecting her sensibilities? If indeed her sensibilities needed protecting, which they didn’t. They never had.
But he hadn’t been guarding her sensibilities, had he? He’d been protecting himself.
Emma found it difficult to speak for some moments. When she did find words, they were only three. “I hate her.”
He laughed. “You’re a vicar’s daughter. You can’t know what it is to hate anyone.”
“Oh, yes, I can.” Her hands curled into fists. She growled. “I could strangle the woman.”
“You could not.”
“Fine. But I would stick her with pins. A large number of pins.”
“That, I can almost believe.”
“I mean it. A great many pins. She would look like a hedgehog by the time I was through with her.”
Emma fumed. Her anger was no exaggeration. She might have envied or resented Annabelle Worthing in the past, but in that moment, she truly despised the woman. How dare she. She’d convinced a brave, loyal, decent man that he was a monster. A creature who deserved nothing more than scraps and shadows of affection, and even then, only in the dark.
“Do you know, this room is rather charming,” he said, in an obvious attempt to change the subject.
“Charming?”
“It has possibilities. All it needs is a few draperies, better furnishings, a coat of paint, a mattress stuffed with straw from this decade, a few dozen scrubbing brushes, and a vermin catcher. Where’s your imagination?”
She gave him a dry look.
“Of course, there is one thing in the room that requires no alteration.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead.
“Nicely rescued.”
“Are you hungry at all?”
“Not very.”
“Well, I’m famished.” He pulled on his trousers and shirt, then jammed his feet into his boots. “I’ll see about calling for some breakfast and a cab.”
When he opened the bedchamber door, however, a deafening clamor rose up. Shouts and cries from the public rooms below. Footsteps pounding madly up the stairs.
A man elbowed his way into the bedchamber and slammed the door shut behind him. “You don’t want to go down there. Trust me.”
The stranger wore a mask of black mesh and a similarly dark jerkin cinched over black trousers and a dark shirt. In his hand, he carried a slingshot.
Emma shook her head, bewildered.
Her husband, however, seemed to understand.
“What are you doing here?” He waved a hand at the newcomer’s strange attire. “And what is all that?”
“Like it? My old fencing kit, a bit of bootblack . . . and here I am.” The intruder pushed the mask back, revealing his face. He bowed to Emma. “At your service, Your Grace.”
With the mask dislodged, Emma could see that he was only a boy. Eleven or twelve years old, perhaps. Tall for his age, with jug-handle ears and a gap between his front teeth.
And this boy, whoever he was, seemed to be well acquainted with her husband.
She turned to Ash. “May I trouble you for an introduction?”
“This? This is Trevor.”
The boy jabbed his elbow in Ash’s side. “Ahem.”
Ash rolled his eyes. “Right. This is the Menace.”
The Menace? Oh, Emma couldn’t wait to hear this story.
“I’m the Monster of Mayfair’s associate,” the boy said. “Apprentice, if you will. His protégé.”
“How remarkable. How did this come about?”
Her husband gave her a blank look. “I’ve no idea.”
“You’re bloody fortunate it did.” The boy walked between them and dropped onto the bed with a creak and a bounce. “All London’s gathered outside, waiting on the Monster of Mayfair to make an appearance.”
Ash went to the window. “I should have known this would happen. Last night . . . I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, you weren’t thinking.” Emma crossed to his side, taking his arm. “You were caring.”
“That and a penny will buy you stale bread. It’s not going to help us now.”
“Would it be so terrible if the world learned the truth?” she asked.
“Considering that I’m known about London as a child-snatching, bloodthirsty monster who sacrifices small animals to the Dark Lord? Yes, I think it would be.”
Emma bit her tongue. She longed to point out that perhaps he should have thought about all this before encouraging his notoriety. But it wouldn’t do any good just now.
“Well, if you mean to remain anonymous, what do you propose to do?” she asked. “There isn’t any rear exit, and I’m not jumping out that window.”
“You don’t need another exit. All you need is a diversion,” Trevor said.
“No diversion will tear that mob away,” Ash said. “Maybe a fire, but even that’s questionable.”
“It’s simple.” Trevor picked up Ash’s hat and placed it on his head. It settled halfway down his ears. “I’ll be the Monster. You be the Menace.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No,” Emma countered, “it’s brilliant. Think about it. The crowd down there isn’t waiting for the Duke of Ashbury. They’re waiting for the Monster of Mayfair. A man in a black hat and cape.”
“He’s not a man. He’s a boy.”
“I’m tall for my age,” Trevor said defensively.
“A minute or two is all we need. By the time they realize he’s not the Monster—”
“You’ll have skirted the crowd and escaped.” Trevor flashed a smug grin. “And I have a hackney waiting on the next corner.”
“My goodness,” Emma said. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you? What a fine assistant you make.”
“Stop encouraging him.” Ash said.
“Did you have a better plan?”
“Unfortunately, no.” He handed her one of the wool blankets. “Wrap yourself in this. We can’t risk anyone getting a glimpse of red silk.”
Emma wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. It smelled bad and chafed worse, but it was long and thick enough to serve its purpose. She would take a long, hot bath at home later.
“Leave the rest to me.” Trevor launched to his feet. Not three paces away, the boy paused. Then, with a snap of his neck, he looked back at them. He raised a single eyebrow. “You’ve been menaced.”
Ash scowled. “What is that?”
“It’s my new signature phrase. A calling card. Still working on the delivery.” Trevor lowered his voice to a sinister growl, then lifted the same eyebrow. “You’ve”—pause—“been menaced.”
Emma pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.
“Or there’s this way. You’ve been”—pause, eyebrow lift—“menaced.” The boy cocked his head. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Ash said tightly, “you should take them both and—”
“Alternate between them,” Emma interrupted. “They’re both excellent. Quite memorable.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Trevor bowed over her hand and kissed it. “Until we meet again.”
With a flourish of black cape, he was gone.
Finally, she allowed herself to laugh. “What an extraordinary young man.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Emma cinched the scratchy wool blanket about her shoulders. “I need a better costume. And a name of my own. Oh, how about the Needle? I can prick ruffians with a long, sharp sword.”
“Don’t start.”
He cracked the door open, and together they listened until they heard Trevor reach the public room and bellow: “I am the Monster of Mayfair! To behold my face is to know despair!”
Ash closed his eyes and muttered something unkind.
“It’s not bad,” Emma protested. “It even rhymes.”
He pulled the fencing mask over his face. “Let’s just go.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Thankfully, they made their way back to Ashbury House with a minimum of further indignities. After a few vague explanations to the worried staff, a hot breakfast, and hotter baths, the two of them tumbled atop Ash’s bed and slept the day away.
Emma woke to late afternoon, and to her husband pushing a wheeled table toward the bed. It was laden with covered dishes and baskets of bread, cheeses, fruits. Her stomach rumbled.
“What’s this?” She rubbed her eyes. “Dinner in bed?”
“It’s perfect.” He reached for a wedge of cheese. “I promised you dinner every night. You promised me bed. We both hold our ends of the bargain at once.”
“How very efficient.”
“Really, I don’t know how the idea escaped me until now.”
Emma nibbled at an apple tart. “I’ve been thinking, dumpling.”
He flopped back on the bed and groaned. “Em-ma.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to call you Ash. It’s just not who you are. Ash is the dead, cold remnants after a fire. The parts that get swept away and discarded. You’re not Ash to me. You’re alive and blazing and more than a little dangerous. You always keep me warm.” Lest he grow too panicked at the praise, she decided to lighten her tone. “Besides, it’s too amusing to devil you.”
“Amusing for you, perhaps.”
“Let’s have a compromise. When we’re in the company of others, I will call you Ash or Ashbury. When we’re alone, you’ll allow me my little pet names.”
“Fine. But you must confine yourself to an agreed upon list. No more rainbows and buttercups.”
“I suppose I can do that.”
He considered. “Here are the ones I’ll allow. ‘My stallion,’ ‘my buck,’ and . . . ‘my colossus of man-flesh.’”
She laughed in his face at that last. “Let’s keep to the traditional endearments, shall we? Such as ‘my dear’?”
“That’s acceptable.”
“‘Darling’?”
He made a face of disgust. “If you must.”
She chewed on the pastry, trying to gather courage. “How do you feel about ‘my love’?”
He stared deeply into her eyes, as though questioning her sincerity. However, she knew it wasn’t what lay within her that mattered—it was whether he’d allow himself to believe the words.
The familiar shields overtook his expression, closing the door on possibility. “‘My stallion’ it is.”
Emma was disappointed, but she decided not to press the matter. Perhaps it was all too much for one day.
She looked about for a diversion. Her eye fell on a fresh stack of papers beside the dinner tray.
She’d made a habit of asking the servants to collect broadsheets daily. By this point, Ash was supporting half the printers in London. Probably a few paper mills, as well. The Monster of Mayfair was the best thing to happen to British journalism since Waterloo.
She seized on the change of subject, gathering the papers and bringing them back to the bed. “Let’s see what they’re saying about you today. There’s certain to be something about last night’s adventure.” As she skimmed the first broadsheet, however, her anticipation of humor turned to horror. “Oh, no. Oh, Ash. This is bad.”
“What is it now? Have I rescued a girl from drowning in the Serpentine?”
“No. You’ve abducted a woman in red, forced an innkeeper to let you hide her, and she was never seen again. Foul play is suspected.” She passed him the paper, then positioned herself behind his shoulder and reached over to jab her finger at the paper. “The Crown has issued a hue and cry for the Monster of Mayfair.” She poked again, rattling the newsprint. “The Crown. Every able-bodied man in London is obliged to help capture you on sight.”
“Yes. I see.”
“They’ve even offered a reward. Twenty pounds. That’s a year’s earnings for a laborer.”
“Yes. I know.”
“‘Wanted on suspicions of trespassing, assault, theft of property, kidnapping, and murder.’ Murder!”
“I am able to read, thank you.” He was infuriatingly calm. “I’m a bit disappointed witchcraft and insurance fraud aren’t on the list.”
“How can you even joke about this?”
“Trust me, there’s no call to be agitated.” He dug into a portion of game pie. “Even the worst possible scenario is a mere inconvenience.”
“Being brought up on charges of murder would be a mere inconvenience?”
“I didn’t commit any murders, Emma.”
“That’s not what the broadsheets would have their readers believe. You know how eager people have been to make false reports of your exploits.”
“Yes, I do know.” He swallowed his mouthful of pie. “One of those eager people with false stories would be you.”
Well, she couldn’t contradict that.
“I would never be charged with murder,” he went on. “The very thought is absurd. I’m a duke. It just doesn’t happen. Even if I were captured, I would never be brought to trial.”
“How can you be certain of that?”
“To begin, dukes aren’t charged in the same courts. We are entitled to a trial of our peers in the House of Lords. That’s if there were any evidence, which there isn’t. Second, there’s a little thing called privilege of peerage. All we have to do is invoke it, and we’re off the hook for nearly any crime.”
She was agape. “You’re joking.”
“Not at all.”
“My goodness. That must be nice.”
“It is, rather. Can’t deny it.”
On any other occasion, Emma would have been appalled by the injustice of this system. However, given the current state of affairs, she found herself unable to complain.
“Hold a moment,” she said. “You said a peer may be forgiven almost any crime. Which means some crimes are exceptions.”
“Well, treason, naturally. And—” He broke off, clearly reluctant to continue.
She leaned forward. “And . . . ?”
“Murder,” he admitted.
She bounced on the mattress in anger. “You just told me it would be a minor inconvenience! How could hanging be a minor inconvenience?”
“It never goes that far.” He set aside his now-empty plate. “At the most, I’d make a manslaughter plea, and that would put paid to it.”
“What if it does go that far?”
“It wouldn’t.”
“Humor me.”
He sighed as he reached for his glass of wine. “A peer found guilty of a capital felony—which never occurs—could conceivably be executed. Which never occurs, either. No one’s been struck with corruption of the blood in ages now. Literal centuries.”
“And what’s corruption of the blood?”
“It means a bloodline is considered tainted. They take away the peer’s title and property, and none of his descendants can inherit it.”
Emma’s hands were fists in her lap. “So if . . . and I’m allowing you the ‘if’ . . . this exceedingly unlikely event occurred, you could be captured and charged as the Monster of Mayfair, brought to trial in the House of Lords on charges of murder, convicted, and put to death, with the result that your wife and possibly your child would be left without any property or inheritance?”
“It never happens, Emma. Never.”
“But it could!”
“It won’t.”
She took a deep breath to calm herself. “You’ve allowed this ruse to go on too long. We can mend this. Come forward. Let everyone know that you’re the Monster of Mayfair, I’m the missing lady in red, and that it was all merely a lark that got out of hand.”
“So instead of facing the slim chance that I would ever be captured—and the slimmer chance that I would be brought up on any charges—you want me to confess to crimes I didn’t commit?”
“No. I want you to confess to encouraging a silly legend and letting it continue for far too long. Just have out with it. As you say, a duke gets away with everything.”
He drained his wineglass and rose from the bed. “I will not admit to the world that I’m the Monster of Mayfair. There would be a scandal, and you would have to bear up under it. Who knows what the broadsheets would call you? The Beastly Bride of Bloom Square?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Did you have that moniker thought out in advance?”
“No,” he said, sounding defensive.
“Because it tripped rather easily off your tongue.”
“The point is this. I’m not going to do that to you. Whatever name the papers might choose, I refuse to put you under their scrutiny. Much less any child you could be carrying.”
“If you are so concerned for your wife and child, perhaps you ought to have considered that earlier,” she muttered, vexed. She tried to find a compromise. “If you refuse to come forward, at least promise me this. The Monster of Mayfair has retired. He’s pensioned off to the country, never to return. Swear to me that you’ll burn all your capes and never go walking at night again.”
“Done.” He put a finger under her chin, tipping her face to receive his kiss. “The Monster of Mayfair is no more. I swear it.”
“You had better keep your word,” she said. “Or you’ll face the wrath of the Beastly Bride.”
