The passionate conclusion to Jackson’s classic medieval romance trilogy—begun in Kiss of the Moon and continued in Enchantress . 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 the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than eighty-five novels, including Afraid to Die , Tell Me , You Don’t Want to Know , Running Scared , Without Merc y, Malice , and Shiver . She is also the coauthor of the Colony series, with her sister, Nancy Bush. There are over 20 million copies of Lisa Jackson’s books in print in twenty languages. She is a recipient of the RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award and has also been honored with their Career Achievement Award for Romantic Suspense. Born in Oregon, she continues to make her home among family, friends, and dogs in the Pacific Northwest. Visit her at LisaJackson.com. Outlaw 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. Her father sighed sadly. “But ye’d best not wait too long with that grandson.” “Don’t talk such madness,” she chided, refusing to believe that her beloved father would soon die. But ’twas as if he were deaf. “Holt, he will be a good husband to you,” he said, patting her hands and smiling without reason, as if he had no mind left. There was hushed talk between his men that he was addled, that the loss of his wife and two children, coupled with his age, had finally caught up to him, that he’d taken one too many blows to the head in the heat of battle in his younger years. “A lucky lass ye be to marry a knight as brave as Sir Holt.” Despair raked sharp claws down her heart. “Nay, Father,” she said boldly, knowing this was her last chance to change his mind. “Do not argue with me.” Grasping his hand more urgently, she whispered, “But Father, I need not a husband—” “Shh,” he said, then coughed loudly, his chest rattling, his body clenching against the pain. “God in heaven,” he growled, once the attack had passed. He reached for a mazer of wine on a bedside table. His hounds, two gray hunters, lifted their heads and glared at Megan menacingly, as if she were the reason their master no longer rode wildly through the forests and underbrush, drinking mead, whooping loudly, and flushing out deer, boars, and pheasant for them to chase. Beneath the dogs’ yellow-eyed glare, Megan inched up her chin. Even the snarling beasts appeared to blame her for the ills that had plagued Dwyrain. Cayley, whom Megan had trusted with her secret, had told the story of the crippled prophet and his curse. “But Father,” she pressed on, “remember, the magician said that should I marry this man of your choosing, the marriage would b