Married? The word landed like a hammer in his gut. He couldn’t seem to move. Every bone, every muscle, every nerve ending had turned to stone. “Who?” The toneless, vaguely menacing voice didn’t belong to him—it sounded like MacRuairi’s. Anna wouldn’t meet his gaze. Her hands started to twist nervously in the thick woolen folds of her skirt. “Sir Hugh Ross.” A knife wedged between his ribs would have skewered less sharply. The Earl of Ross’s son and heir. Arthur knew of him, of course. The young knight had already made a name for himself. He was a fierce warrior—a tactician on and off the battlefield. The fact that he was worthy of her made it worse. Arthur didn’t understand the rage pouring through him, nor the feeling of betrayal. She didn’t belong to him, damn it. Could never belong to him. But that didn’t mean he could forget that not a fortnight past he’d held her in his arms—and come damned close to taking her innocence.
