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  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Lisa Jackson enchants readers with this classic romantic adventure set on the turbulent border of Wales, where a rogue knight and a lady clash with passionate intensity....

  Stealthy and dangerous as the name he bears, Wolf, outlaw knight of Abergwynn, has no quarrel with the struggling young beauty in his arms. He has come to Tower Dwyrain to take his revenge against her bridegroom, a brutal nobleman Wolf has sworn to dishonor. Through this woman, Wolf thought he could carry out a carefully wrought vengeance. Instead, he finds a different fate—a lady to fight for and to ennoble his dark, wayward soul.

  Megan of Dwyrain has been haunted by a sorcerer’s prediction that her castle would be destroyed, her arranged marriage doomed, and her enemy made her beloved. Now, in the iron grasp of the abductor who invaded her wedding, she beholds eyes that glitter not with hate but with devilment and spirit. She will challenge him, try to escape him, and yet find in him a Wolf she hungers to tame—a knight who inspires a love that nothing, not dungeons dark nor the risk of death itself, can end.

  LISA JACKSON is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of both historical romance novels and contemporary suspense. Her most recent books include See How She Dies, Hot Blooded, and Cold Blooded. She lives in Oregon.

  For more information, visit www.lisajackson.com.

  Praise for Lisa Jackson’s Stunning Works of Romantic Fiction

  “[Lisa Jackson] fires your imagination and stimulates your senses. You’ll hear the clamor of armor, the hiss of arrows, and whispers of treacherous men. … Passionate, you bet. Entertainment I couldn’t put down.”

  —Rendezvous

  “Lots of action, romance, and atmosphere; not to be missed!”

  —Linda Lael Miller

  “Her books are compelling, her characters intriguing, and her plots ingenious.”

  —Debbie Macomber

  “A bright star in the medieval romance galaxy.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “With a deft hand and lyrical pose, [Lisa Jackson] spins a spell-binding tapestry of Medieval Wales, drawing the reader ever deeper into the vibrant drama enacted by richly crafted characters.”

  —Romantic Times

  ALSO BY LISA JACKSON

  KISS OF THE MOON

  ENCHANTRESS

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  Pocket Books

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1995 by Susan Lynn Crose

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Books eBook edition August 2012

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  ISBN-13: 978-1-4767-0505-7

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Wales

  Winter 1295

  urry!” Megan ordered, her breath fogging in the frigid air as she leaned forward in the saddle. Her horse, a headstrong bay mare with an urge to nip, galloped through the forest as night closed in. “Faster, you beast, faster!” Megan glanced at the sky. Through the bare branches she saw clouds, thick and dark and menacing, ready to spill a shower of sleet over the countryside near the castle of Dwyrain, her home.

  At least she hoped it was still her home. Her father might just banish her this time. “Please, God, no,” she whispered, suddenly frightened and contrite. Why had she been so foolish as to let her younger sister Cayley goad her into an argument? Wouldn’t she ever learn?

  “Run, Shalimar, ’tis a good girl you be.” The encouragement she gave slid through teeth that chattered.

  The wind picked up. Megan shivered. Her gloved fingers turned to ice as she held the reins. The forest surrounding Dwyrain had always been an enchanted place in the summer where she’d ridden, hunted, laughed, and waded in the meandering streams. She’d picked berries and nuts, dug for herbs, and plucked wildflowers and ferns from their stalks.

  But this afternoon, only a few days before the Christmas revels were to begin, the woods were gloomy; the dark-limbed trees with their naked branches appeared to be forgotten soldiers guarding secrets that no mortal man dared unearth. How many times had her mother warned her that the forests around Dwyrain were sinister, haunted by the spirits of ghosts, people who had believed in the old ways rather than the lawful teachings of the church?

  Megan had always laughed at her mother’s silly warnings, though Violet of Dwyrain was not the only one who believed in spirits boding both good and evil. Many servants in the castle professed Christianity and knelt on the cold stone floor of the chapel each day, but clung to the faith of their forefathers—the ancient ways. Even old Rue, the nursemaid, trusted the runes and spells of her elders. Megan had spent years watching her, learning quickly, though knowing instinctively that she should never let anyone realize just how much of Rue’s pagan magic she’d planted in her mind.

  Gathering her cloak to her neck, she squinted as the first icy drops began to fall. The sky was nearly black, and again Megan cursed herself for her foolishness. Her father, Baron Ewan, would be furious with her and would probably send her to her chamber without food and order her to spend hours in the chapel on her knees while begging forgiveness of the Blessed Mother and Holy Father.

  Saints in heaven, why had she been so foolish? Frozen cobwebs brushed her cheeks as she rode, guiding the animal down the narrow deer trail. The mare’s quick hoofbeats echoed in the quiet forest. Gripping her hood about her neck with one hand, Megan leaned forward and the horse took the bit, running faster and faster along the narrow trail. “ ’Tis good you are, Shalimar,” Megan cried as a branch slapped her face. They weren’t far now, just around the next bend and up a hill and—

  The earth seemed to shift. Megan flew forward as Shalimar stumbled.

  “Oh!” As she slid sideways in the saddle, leafless branches spun wildly in her vision. The slick reins slid from her fingers as she hung upside down. Her cloak fell over her face and swept the ground. Gamely, the horse plowed forward, limping. “Stop! Shalimar! Halt!” she commanded, scrambling to pull herself back into the saddle. The mare went down on one knee and Megan, barely astride again, pitched forward.

  The ground rushed up at her. She landed hard on her shoulder. Pain screame
d up her arm and she felt dizzy as she tried to sit up. Shalimar stood, sweating and mud-spattered, favoring a foreleg, her liquid eyes rimmed in white, her dirty coat trembling.

  Gritting her teeth, Megan climbed to her feet and made her way to her horse. “What is it, girl?” she asked, but the mare shied and limped farther away.

  “Your mount’s lame.” A deep, soft-spoken voice shook the rain from the leaves of the ivy that clung tenaciously to the trees.

  Megan nearly jumped out of her skin. She whirled quickly, her boots sliding in the mud, her eyes narrowed as she squinted into the thicket. “Who are you?” she asked, her horse forgotten, her fingers searching through the slits in her cloak for the knife she had strapped to her belt. “Show yourself.”

  A soft chuckle followed and an owl hooted from the higher branches of a great fir tree.

  “I said—”

  “I heard you.” A man appeared from the shadows. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a ragged cape that nearly touched the ground, he stepped forward with a noticeable limp. His face was hidden by the hood of his cape, and for a second, Megan shivered in fear. “What are you doing out here alone, Megan of Dwyrain?”

  Her throat went dry as her fingers clasped upon the hilt of her dagger. “I—I went riding.”

  “Ahh. Because of a tiff with your sister Cayley, aye?”

  Her heart pounded. “But how did you know? Were you in the keep standing with your ear to the door? Who are you?” she demanded, tossing her wet hair from her face and lifting her chin proudly, mimicking her older brother Bevan. Rain dripped off her nose and chin ignobly and dirt was probably smudged on her face, but she stood her ground, refusing to appear frightened.

  “I … feel things,” he said, looking suddenly vexed, as if he would like to come up with a better explanation, but could not. “Now, let’s have a look at your mount.”

  “She’ll shy.”

  He ignored Megan and spoke softly to the horse. His words were nearly hypnotic, a chant of sorts at which Shalimar, snorting nervously, didn’t flinch; not even when he lifted her pained leg and examined it with long fingers that protruded from gloves that covered only his palms. What kind of man was he? The mare, anxious only seconds before, quieted under his hands, and when he reached beneath his cape and withdrew a fat leather pouch, she didn’t so much as nicker.

  “What’re you doing?” Megan asked.

  “Shh!” His command was sharp. “You’ll scare her.” Gently, holding his gloves in his teeth, he applied the jellylike salve, speaking nearly inaudibly to the horse, closing his eyes for a second as he wrapped his fingers around Shalimar’s foreleg. The bay didn’t move and appeared in a trance.

  Rain pelted the ground, creating pools and splashing in icy droplets against Megan’s face and cloak. Shuddering, she stepped away from the mystical man. Though she believed that there were powers on this earth that she didn’t understand, powers greater than those given to men and accompanied by crown and scepter, powers that were invisible to most and granted to only a few, she felt a jab of fear.

  “There now, you may go,” the man said, turning toward her. His face was shadowed by his hood, but she saw that his eyes were blue as the sky in summer.

  “Who are you?”

  He slid his fingers through the holes in his gloves. “ ’Tis of no consequence.”

  “A sorcerer?”

  His smile was humble. “Would you want to think of me as such, so be it.”

  Shalimar ambled forward, no hint of her injury visible in her gait. “The horse is healed.”

  “Aye, but be careful. She’s not meant to run on slick trails that are weakened by the burrows of moles and rabbits and badgers. Race her only where the earth is firm.”

  Megan, always impetuous, couldn’t help her wayward tongue. “But you limp, sir,” she said, motioning to his bad leg. “Why do you not heal yourself as you have the mare?”

  “Ah yes, that.” He thought for a second, those intense eyes studying her as if she were a mystery. “My injury is old. From my youth, before I knew how to heal. And it matters not. ’Tis a reminder to me that I am mortal and that there is suffering in the world.”

  “So you choose to be a cripple?” she asked aghast.

  “ ’Tis my fate.” He threw her a crooked grin. “Now, be off. ’Tis nearly dark and the baron is not pleased.”

  She wanted to know more of this man, this would-be magician. “Please, come with me,” she begged. “My father would want to thank you for helping me and my horse. He’d surely offer you a hot trencher of brawn or eel and a cup of wine along with the safety of the castle for the night.”

  The man’s smile was odd. “Nay, child. I prefer the solitude of the forest.” At that moment, the owl hooted again and the wizard—for that’s what she believed him to be—glanced skyward. Rain ran down his face, but he didn’t notice. “Hush, Owain, be patient,” he said. The owl ignored him, letting loose another soft call, and the man grinned widely, showing off white teeth beneath a nose that wasn’t quite straight. “He’s a stubborn fellow, that one.”

  “You know my name,” Megan said as he handed her Shalimar’s reins, “but I know not yours.”

  “ ’Tis better if you don’t.”

  “Are you an enemy of Dwyrain?”

  He hesitated and his eyes looked over her shoulder, to a distance that was of his own making. “Nay, child—now, be gone.”

  As if rooted to the ground, she didn’t move—just stared, fascinated, into his eyes. “You speak with animals.”

  “I only see into their minds.”

  “Can you see into mine as well?” she asked.

  “Perhaps.” His sigh was as soft as the wind. “Is that what you’d like?”

  “Nay—aye—I know not.”

  “Sometimes it is best if we know not what others think.”

  Shivering, Megan shook her head. “Tell me.”

  Eyeing her but a moment, he said, “So be it.” He removed one glove and took her hand in his. She expected his fingers to be frigid as the sea, but a warmth traveled from his palm to hers. “I see not into your mind, but to the years of your life not yet lived.”

  “You see ahead in time—you foretell what will be?”

  “Aye. ’Tis my curse. Would you like to know of your unborn years?”

  She could barely breathe and a part of her wanted to flee, to be rid of this odd forest-man with his gentle voice and knowing eyes, and yet she couldn’t let go, for she trusted him. The warmth of his hand, his soothing voice, his trustworthy eyes. Nodding, she braced herself and wished she could stop her quaking, for surely he could feel the trembling that had suddenly afflicted her. “Tell me,” she said, her words rushed.

  “Aye, then.” Closing his eyes, he held her fingers between his two hands. “There will be trouble at Dwyrain,” he said, his voice sounding as if it had traveled a great distance through a long, narrow cavern. “Sickness. Deceit. Betrayal.”

  “No.”

  “The blame will be placed on you.”

  She recoiled, but he held her hand firmly.

  “You will marry in the next few years at the bidding of your father, but the marriage will be cursed—”

  “No, I’ll not listen—” she said, but stood transfixed, unable to move.

  “Your family and castle will be destroyed.”

  “Nay, sorcerer, I’ll not believe—”

  “Only true love will restore Dwyrain and your honor,” he continued, his eyes squeezed shut, his head moving slowly, as if he were listening to some higher order.

  “Love?” So there was hope. If she allowed herself to believe in this foolishness.

  “Aye, but the faces of love are many. Some treacherous. Some deceitful. Some as shadowy as candlelight. True love must be tested, Megan, and yours will come from an unlikely source.”

  Her insides turned to ice. “How will I know—?”

  “The man will be dark-haired, fierce of countenance, unforgiving by nature.”

  �
��He sounds like a fiend.”

  “Beneath his mantle of hatred, he has a true heart.”

  Megan yanked back her hand. “I believe you not,” she said, though a part of her trusted the horrid words. “You are the voice of the Devil.”

  “I speak only the truth, child,” he said solemnly, and a blade of dread sliced through her heart. She wanted to laugh at him, to tell him he was addled, call him a fool, but she held her tongue. Did he not know who she was, who her father was? Did he not heal her lame horse?

  Before she said another word, he slipped away, as if in his own mist, through the curtain of rain. Overhead, the wings of a great owl flapped wildly.

  “Wait,” she cried, but before the word was uttered, she knew he was gone.

  Swallowing hard, she clucked softly to the horse, pulling on the reins as she led the beast back to the great gates of Dwyrain. The man was mad, she told herself, not to be trusted—an imposter who performed some sort of trickery. But no matter how desperately she argued with herself, she couldn’t cast off the premonition of doom that trailed after her, as unshakable as her own shadow, as dark as the deep waters of Hag’s End Lake.

  One

  Tower Dwyrain

  Winter 1297

  ome now, smile, Megan. ’Tis your wedding day,” Ewan cajoled, lying on the bed in his chamber. He patted the white fur coverlet and smiled up at his daughter.

  Even in the flickering light from the candles, Megan saw the spots of age on his thin skin and noticed that his once-fleshy face had hollowed. In his youth, his eyes had been as clear and blue as a mountain lake, but now they had clouded, leaving him half blind.

  “You’ll not have to look after me much longer, child,” he told her. “My time here is short.”

  “Nay, Father—” she said, closing the door behind her and hurrying to his bedside. She sat on the edge of the feather mattress and took his cold fingers in her own.

  “Aye, and I’ll be expecting to see a grandson before I go, a strong, strapping lad as Bevan was,” he said. Tears welled in Megan’s eyes when she thought of her brother, a year older than she but now in his grave, the victim of the sickness that had taken so many in the castle, including her mother and tiny sister. Megan swallowed against a thick lump that had formed in her throat. She’d heard the gossip, knew that most of the servants and a few of the knights blamed her for the death and destruction that had befallen Dwyrain ever since she’d seen the lame prophet in the forest, and he’d cursed her as well as the castle.