He would not be defeated by a damned turkey. And he would not give up Mellie. So with his own muted roar, he shoved his hands down, managing to lever himself onto all fours.
That, of course, put him almost eye to eye with the bird, so he had a perfect view of the thing—running straight at him—as it fouled Ronnie’s sudden charge.
Man and beast collided with much squawking and roaring. Ronnie tried to recover. He was nimble for such a big man, and he side-stepped as best he could. But he was carrying a nine-foot quarterstaff. Trevor’s own six-foot one was difficult enough. The three extra feet was too much for Ronnie. He tried to use it against the bird, but ended up digging the end in the ground instead. With the quarterstaff suddenly jerking him sideways and the bird pecking at his knees, there was no hope.
Ronnie fell as all giants fall: with flailing arms, a roar of frustration, and—in this case—a bird pecking at his privates. Which—now that Trevor thought about it—was probably the reason for the high-pitched nature of Ronnie’s scream.
The duchess ran forward, her truncheon raised high. She was heading for the turkey, saying something that might have been, “you poor dear,” and then she gave Ronnie a big whack as she rushed past.
Ronnie might have recovered. The duchess, though fierce, had hit him on his fleshy behind, which was insulting but not really damaging.
Mr. Rausch stepped forward. He walked leisurely, which Trevor thought was rather lucky. The longer Mr. Rausch took to subdue Ronnie, the more time it gave Trevor to get to his feet.
But he’d forgotten that Rausch was a smart man, not given to ostentatious shows of fury like Ronnie. He stepped casually forward and set the silver-tipped point of his staff on Ronnie’s throat.
“I win,” he said.
“No,” Trevor bellowed. Or he tried to. It came out more as a strangled groan. It took all his concentration to stay upright on his knees.
The crowd was deafening as they screamed abuse. No one seemed to have heard him. But he was fighting for Mellie. He couldn’t let her go to the roué. He couldn’t!
“No!” he tried again as he got one foot under him. Oh bloody hell, the ground was heaving about like a boiling pot of porridge.
Meanwhile, Ronnie looked like he was going to fight. There wasn’t much he could do lying flat with a silver-tipped spear to his throat, but he started cursing. Apparently, the man was well versed in ways to insult his attacker. Rausch, of course, wasn’t in the least bit concerned.
“Yield, Mr. Smithson.”
Ronnie didn’t want to. But then a little pressure to his throat had his insults sputtering to silence. A moment more—or perhaps after a deeper push from Mr. Rausch—and Ronnie gave in. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Say it, Mr. Smithson.”
Finally, Ronnie did. “Yield.” It was an angry curse, but the word was clear enough.
“I don’t,” said Trevor.
With a Herculean effort, he surged to his feet. He would fight for Mellie.
But he’d forgotten the damned turkey. The beast was a menace. Worse, it was an easily startled menace that abruptly set to gobbling and pecking at him. And the duchess did nothing to restrain the satanic creature.
Trevor went down again, tripping over the bird on his way to Mellie, who was just now stepping into the ring. He tried to call out to her. He tried any of a thousand different things that all added up to him pleading with her to understand. To forgive him. To wait.
But none of the words came out except one. It burst forth as the turkey managed to kick him in the gut.
“Bugger!”
Then he went down beneath the creature’s wings.
He rolled away. He could manage that. But by the time he got free of the maniacal creature, it was to see Mr. Rausch on one knee before Mellie. And while she stared in frozen shock, he offered her a ring.
Bloody hell, the man had just proposed.
Trevor didn’t give up until he saw Mellie’s nod. A slow dip of her chin that cut the heart straight out of him. Proposed. Accepted. And him flattened by a turkey.
With a moan of despair, he gave up. He closed his eyes and let unconsciousness claim him. The last thing he heard seemed fitting somehow. A final end to this charade.
“Squawk!”
He really hoped that someone had just strangled the demonic bird.