A Warrior s Desire - By Pamela Palmer Page 0,67

and pressed his hands against the tree, head bent, taking deep breaths.

He was a soldier.

A SEAL.

Focus.

Right now he had to concentrate on beating these bastards and freeing the potentially duplicitous Ilaria.

Right now he had to keep himself alive and save the world.

He took a mental inventory of his gear, then shook his head.

There was no possible way he was going to succeed without a miracle.

Then again, this land was magic.

And this forest hated the Esri.

He pulled out one of his small flamethrowers and his knife.

One in each hand, he ran silently through the woods, toward the clearing.

If he were stalking humans, they'd never know he was coming.

As he drew near, an arrow whizzed by his shoulder.

Unfortunately, this enemy was not human.

He rolled behind a tree as two more arrows broke the air he'd been occupying a second before.

Any thought that the Esri might want to capture him was gone.

They clearly wanted him dead.

Adrenaline poured through his system, raising his spirits.

God, he loved a challenge.

Two more arrows passed on either side of the tree, pinning him in place.

He was still nearly twenty yards from the temple.

Could the Esri come this far into the forest? Would they risk it in order to capture him? He was all too afraid the answer was yes.

His gaze landed on one of the arrows sticking out of a tree in front of him.

If only Tarrys were here with her bow to give him a moment's cover.

But he was on his own now.

Shoving his knife in his boot, he pulled out his binoculars and tried to get a bead on his attackers.

Two archers stood in plain sight, aiming for him.

A short distance behind them, he could make out the form of a woman tied to a pillar of stone.

Ilaria.

She was every bit as beautiful as the painting he'd seen of her, and yet her beauty didn't hold a candle to Tarrys's.

The archers released their arrows and he ducked back as the projectiles flew by him.

The Esri had apparently abandoned their plan to trap him.

Then again, they knew Tarrys had seen the setup.

They knew it wouldn't work.

Yet Ilaria remained tied.

Why? To confuse him? Or because they feared she'd try to escape? Even well-treated prisoners longed for freedom.

Another arrow sailed past him.

"I could use your help, forest," he muttered.

"Can you extend your influence into the clearing? Scare the crap out of them for me, maybe?" He didn't expect an answer, but the sudden gust of wind that whipped at his cloak, sent chills racing over his flesh.

The wind rose, tossing leaves and swirling his cloak around his body.

There was no weather in Esria.

Yeah, things were definitely getting interesting, though how a storm was going to help him, he couldn't begin to guess.

Maybe it would confuse the Esri? He couldn't afford to be picky.

He needed any help he could get.

Charlie dove out from behind the tree and rolled behind another, but no arrows followed him.

He dove and rolled again and still no arrows.

Cautiously, he eased out, close enough to see the Esri now that he knew where to look.

They were still aiming where he'd been two trees ago.

As if they hadn't seen him move.

He frowned.

With extreme caution, he ran forward, from tree to tree, keeping watch on the two archers as he scanned for others.

As he neared the clearing, more Esri came into view, all clustered around Ilaria and the other archers.

To a man, unmoving.

Frozen.

His eyes widened as his gaze snagged on one Esri caught in midstride, his cloak whipping around him in the punishing wind, one foot lifted, extended, paralyzed several inches off the ground.

No.

Way.

This was it, then.

His chance.

He'd needed a miracle and the forest had delivered it on a platter.

"Thanks, woods," he said.

Still scanning for sign of danger, he ran for Ilaria, fully aware he might not have much time.

His senses cataloged a large, ruined village surrounding an Aztec-style pyramid.

But Ilaria was thankfully close to the edge of the forest, if a tad too close to the Esri.

If that wind died too soon, he was dead.

Princess Ilaria - and he knew it was her, for she was the spitting image of the woman in the painting - stood as frozen as her guards, her emerald gown twisting around her legs.

Her hair, pale ivory streaked with gold, flew around her porcelain-like face.

Eyes as green as her gown followed him, sharp and cunning.

He might be performing a rescue, but he'd be smart to treat her with the care and caution he would any dangerous animal.

"I've come to rescue you,