Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

R owan felt trapped inside a Wedgwood teacup. The Blue Room lived up to its name in spectacular fashion. She ran her hand over the silk damask wallpaper. ‘So this is what old money looks like when it goes colour blind after centuries of inbreeding. Hmm!’

The room was three times the size of her own in the flat-share in Glasgow. A four-poster bed dominated one wall, with carved oak posts that reached toward the ceiling. The mattress, when she tested it with an experimental bounce, squeaked in protest.

What must a girl do to get a bit of memory foam once in her life?

She got up and hung her wet clothes over a carved Victorian screen, dripping onto the Persian rug.

Probably the first time in half a century that anything got wet in this bedroom.

She wandered around and found an oversized jumper in one of the drawers, faded black with ‘Cambridge University’ emblazoned across the chest. It smelled of mothballs and fell to mid-thigh, hanging loose and shapeless. But it was comfy and dry.

‘Right.’ She pulled out her notebook. ‘If I’m going to borrow without asking and continue my life of crime, I might as well take notes.’

A portrait of a long-dead Drummond hung askew, his enormous ’stache seeming to judge her. She flopped into a blue armchair. ‘Och, I bet you never had to worry about care home bills or rent.’

Her thoughts drifted to Maxwell Drummond. The way he’d towered over her in the rain… She scoffed. As if that could intimidate her. She’d broken up knife fights on Sauchiehall Street. So, obviously not.

But nice try, Moody MacDarcy.

His eyes had blazed with thinly veiled fury, the colour of the sky just before lightning strikes. Rain dripped from a jaw that hadn’t relaxed in at least two decades. He moved like a man who expected the world to bend around him, yet there’d been something uncertain in the way he’d fumbled through basic hospitality. And that moment in the kitchen when their eyes had met…like touching a plug socket with wet fingers. Thrilling and dangerous and stupid as hell.

Also: impossible.

‘Focus, MacKay.’ She jotted down a few observations in her notebook. The room’s dimensions, the quality of the furnishings, details that spoke of faded grandeur. Her pen scratched across the page as she sketched out possible angles for the story.

Elusive heir returns to crumbling castle …

No, too Gothic romance. Though speaking of romance… She glanced at the bed again, imagining Maxwell sprawled across those crisp white sheets. The unwelcome thought sent an inappropriate shiver through her.

‘God, no.’ She buried her face into a throw pillow. ‘Ew. Gross.’

No. She was not attracted to Mr Darcy’s emotionally constipated Scottish cousin. Even if he did wear that white shirt like it had been painted on impeccable pecs when the biblical downpour had hit.

Rowan jumped up, needing to move. ‘Time for some creative research.’ She inspected every corner of the room. The enormous wardrobe yielded a collection of hunting tweeds that hadn’t seen daylight since the days of Queen Victoria. In a chest of drawers, behind a stack of extra blankets, she found a dusty photo album.

Was this still research, or was it snooping? Before she could ask her conscience to decide, her hands were flipping through the pages. Then she stopped. An image showed a younger Maxwell, maybe fourteen or fifteen, laughing with friends on a rugby pitch. His face was open and happy. Cute. Nothing like the closed-off fortress of a man she’d met tonight. There were other pictures, too. Family gatherings, picnics, holiday snapshots with Maxwell and an older boy, arm in arm, sharing the same set of grey-blue eyes.

She recognised him from the articles.

His dead brother.

Rowan closed the keepsake gently, her fingers lingered on the soft, grained leather cover. She didn’t know the full story, but the happiness in the pictures carried an undercurrent of loss.

Maybe that was why he was so…guarded.

Rain still thrashed against the windows as she finally crawled into bed, her notebook clutched to her chest. The sheets smelled expensive. Like everything else in this place, they carried the weight of history and wealth she could never grasp.

Wealthy didn’t mean trustworthy, though.

She could only hope that he wasn’t a serial killer. ‘The Laird with a Lust for Blood. Cracking title.’

She sensed there was a story here. Not another fluff piece about Highland heritage and whisky, but something more substantial. Something about legacy and loss, about the price of privilege and the weight of inheritance. About a man who seemed to have shut himself away in a prison of his own making.

‘Game on, Maxwell Drummond,’ she murmured as sleep pulled at her consciousness. ‘Let’s see what secrets you’re hiding.’

Max stared at the ceiling. He had hardly slept. No wonder. The alcohol had burned off shortly after he’d gone to bed, leaving him with nothing but circular thoughts about Dunmarach and a dull headache.

And then there was Rowan MacKay.

He would have to have a chat with Thompson – Tomkins? – about security. This stranger had waltzed right through, armed with nothing but brass nerve and a knack for making him feel like he was the one who had shown up uninvited.

Unacceptable.

The morning ritual of selecting a suit usually centred him, but today even Savile Row’s finest felt like a polished veneer. He avoided his reflection as he fastened his tie, unwilling to see the evidence of a night spent strategising impossible marriage scenarios. His usual mask of boardroom confidence wasn’t holding as well as it used to.

He had enough on his plate as it was.

‘One week to conjure a bride.’ He smoothed non-existent wrinkles from his jacket. ‘And now there’s a ginger menace camping in the Blue Room.’

The universe, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humour. Here he was, scrambling to find someone – anyone – willing to enter a marriage before his thirtieth birthday stripped him of his inheritance, and all he had acquired was an unauthorised, disrespectful houseguest.

He needed coffee.

As he strode down the corridor, a sound stopped him dead in his tracks.

Was this…singing?

Yes. A voice, bright and lilting, floated through the Blue Room’s door like sunlight through stained glass. Some pop song he vaguely recognised. The melody curled around him and lifted the castle’s oppressive weight for a fleeting moment.

Then reality crashed back.

He was standing outside a guest room like a creep, listening to a trespasser sing in his shower.

Completely unacceptable.

Max willed himself to move and descended the stairs with purposeful strides as if he could outrun the way that song had made him feel.

In the kitchen, he centred himself on the ritual of coffee-making and let the familiar motions ground him.

‘Six days,’ he reminded himself as the dark liquid streamed into his cup. Less than a week to secure his inheritance by marrying.

Completely and utterly unacceptable.

He heard the singing again. It grew louder, accompanied by footsteps. His grip clamped on the counter as Rowan’s voice preceded her into the kitchen, still humming that tune. He shouldn’t turn around. Shouldn’t wonder how the morning light would make her hair gleam, or—

He turned.

She wore his old Cambridge jumper like it had always been hers, bare legs beneath the hem. Her hair was damp and dark and she looked…as if she belonged here, in this space that hadn’t felt like his in thirteen years.

‘Morning, Maxwell .’ Her voice carried a hint of the song. ‘Oh, yay! You made coffee! Aren’t you a darling!’

And with that, she snatched his fresh brew from the machine.

The sheer gall of it rendered him speechless. For the first time in his adult life, Maxwell Drummond – who could reduce other CEOs and board members to stammering with a single raised eyebrow – found himself without words.

She had stolen his coffee.

His coffee.

And he had thought she didn’t look like a thief.

The rage started in his chest and spread outward until his fingertips burned with heat. But any angry retort died on his tongue as she closed her eyes, making a sound of pleasure that shot straight through him.

‘Mmm,’ she purred, ‘proper good stuff. Not that shitty instant muck.’

Her throat moved as she swallowed, and he tracked the motion with an intensity that had nothing to do with anger. His fingers drummed against the counter, a tell he thought he had trained himself out of years ago. He turned to the coffee machine, shoulders rigid as he started another brew.

‘The rain has stopped, but it will take a while until the mud is dry. My driver will be here in thirty minutes. He can take you to the village or wherever you need to go.’

‘Trying to get rid of me already? And here I thought we were having such a lovely time.’

‘Breaking and entering is not my idea of lovely.’

‘Creative accessing, Maxwell,’ she corrected and moved closer.

‘I see you added theft to your criminal record.’ He gave her his most throat-cutting glare. It slid off her as if her skin were made of Teflon.

‘Wrong. Borrowing ,’ she countered. ‘I’ll return the jumper. My clothes aren’t dry yet. And I don’t want to catch pneumonia, you know.’

‘Keep it.’ The words slipped out before he could stop them. He covered his slip with a scowl. ‘Consider it payment to leave and never return.’

Rowan laughed. ‘Oh, Maxwell. That’s adorable.’ She hopped onto the counter and started to swing her bare feet with calculated casualness. ‘But we both know I’m the most interesting thing that’s happened here in aeons.’ Her eyes sparkled as she leaned forward. ‘Besides, if you really wanted me gone, you wouldn’t have let me stay last night. Admit it, Maxwell. I’m fascinating.’

The coffee machine hissed as he jabbed at buttons. ‘You’re a nuisance and a trespasser.’

‘And yet here I am, drinking your coffee.’

Max turned away, needing distance from those knowing eyes. He wrenched open a drawer and searched for bread. The large kitchen suddenly felt too small, too intimate. ‘I suppose you want to be fed before you leave.’

‘Careful. That almost sounds like hospitality. Or charity. Though I’d check the expiry date on that bread if I were you.’

He frowned at the green spots on the loaf. ‘I’m sure there’s more somewhere.’

‘I’d try the bread box right over there. You know, the thing that has “brEAD” stamped right across the front?’ She took another sip and grinned. ‘Do you even know how to make breakfast?’

He slotted the slices into the toaster and muttered under his breath as he turned back to the coffee machine. Grabbing a mug from the cabinet, he placed it beneath the spout. The machine sputtered to life again and began to pour a stream of rich brew. ‘Don’t worry. I manage.’

‘Mmhmm.’ She reached past him to adjust the settings on the toaster he had forgotten to check. ‘Is that why you’re about to cremate perfectly good toast?’

He bristled. ‘I don’t usually—’

‘Cook? Concede that food doesn’t magically appear, carried in by the fairies or the underpaid help?’ She hopped off the counter and moved with easy grace, finding a knife and a plate in the cupboards. ‘Tell me, does your butler polish your shoes with unicorn tears, or is that for special occasions?’

‘I don’t have a butler.’

‘No? What about a valet? Please tell me someone helps you dress. These suits can’t be easy to put on with that stick up your ar—’

‘Enough.’ The word sliced through the air. ‘You know nothing about me or my life.’

‘No. I don’t.’ She caught the toast mid-air as it popped. ‘But I know what kind of life produces someone like you. Private schools, never having to worry about choosing between heating and eating. Other people wiping your bum.’

‘You think I’ve never struggled?’

‘At least not financially.’ Colour surged to her cheeks, and for a split second, her confidence faltered before resolve hardened her face. ‘I think your struggles involve choosing between the Porsche and the Jag.’ She spread butter with quick, efficient strokes. ‘Some of us can’t even fathom that sort of problem.’

‘Spare me the working-class hero act. You really think performatively breaking into castles solves anything?’

‘No, but writing about it might.’ She shoved a slice of toast into his hand while she took a bite out of hers. ‘My gran’s care home bills went up again. Now it’s three hundred quid a month for specialised dementia care. That’s money I don’t have. On top of rent that keeps climbing, while my income doesn’t. I’m freelancing, and it’s fucking tough.’ Her voice wavered, and she masked it with a smile. ‘Every month, I do the maths. Every month, it doesn’t add up.’

Max wasn’t used to people laying their problems bare, and it needled under his skin. He didn’t know whether to admire her honesty or resent her for making him feel something he would rather ignore.

‘There are other ways—’

‘What, like investing? Inheriting? Bitcoin? Asking Uncle Pimsy for a loan over a dram of Macallan?’ Bitterness crept into her tone as she hopped back up onto the counter. ‘Do you know what it’s like to lie awake wondering if you’ll have to choose between your gran’s care and your own roof?’

The coffee scalded his tongue. ‘I’m neither responsible for you being a judgemental brat, nor for your financial situation.’

Her lips pursed, like she’d bitten into something rotten, and she gestured around the room. ‘No, you’re part of the system. This kitchen is larger than our flat. And by the looks of it, you probably spend more on a suit than I make in a month.’

He scoffed. ‘That’s not—’

‘Fair? True? Both, actually.’ She set her mug down hard enough to spill coffee over the rim. ‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice of you to let me stay. But you have a literal castle while people are choosing between food and medicine. And you don’t even know how good you have it.’

He stared at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. The scorching spark in those green eyes, the daring lift of her chin. The morning light hit the copper in her hair, matching the pots and the blazing conviction in her eyes. She was certifiably mad, breaking into his property, stealing his clothes and coffee, and lecturing him about wealth inequality while perching on his counter like she owned it.

And yet…

There was something compelling about her complete disregard for everything. Most people tiptoed around him, intimidated by his position, power, wealth. She bulldozed through all of it with the delicacy of a wrecking ball, equipped with nothing but bull-headed confidence and righteous indignation.

Her passion was irritating, but also…refreshing. When was the last time he had met someone who cared about anything with such fierce intensity? Never. She spoke about her grandmother with so much devotion, willing to risk trespassing charges to help her. The financial difficulties she described stirred something in him. Three hundred pounds – a sum he would spend without thinking on a dinner – stood between her grandmother and proper care. While she was right about his privilege, she was wrong about him not noticing. He noticed things.

And suddenly, like a key clicking into a lock, everything aligned. An idea formed, dangerous in its simplicity.

Max had exhausted every avenue. His legal team couldn’t find a loophole or contest the clause of the will. And he had made them work on it nonstop since yesterday. The trust insisted that a wife would signify he was capable of committing to something beyond a quarterly earnings report. He needed someone who had nothing to gain beyond what he offered, and nothing to lose by leaving. He glanced at Rowan, dangling her legs off the counter with crumbs on her borrowed jumper. Against all logic, she fit the bill.

He needed a wife within one week. She needed money. They were practically solving each other’s problems already.

The idea was absurd. Unorthodox at best. No sane man would consider this a viable solution. His lawyers would have aneurysms drafting the contracts. But desperate times called for desperate measures. The more he thought about it, the more the pieces clicked into place.

And it wasn’t as if he had better options.

He didn’t believe in fate; he wasn’t a fool. But even he couldn’t deny the fortuitous nature of this encounter.

It still was lunacy, of course. Rowan was nothing like the socialites he casually dated now and then. She would dismantle his world piece by piece, just to see what he was made of.

Perhaps that was what this mausoleum of a castle needed.

What he needed?

Ridiculous notion. He needed no one.

But at least she had the fire to match his ice, the courage to challenge him, and enough genuine compassion to balance his cynicism. Plus, her clear disdain for his wealth meant she wasn’t after his money. Even if money was what she lacked.

A marriage of convenience. It could work. She would get financial security for her grandmother, he would get his inheritance and triumph over the trustees. And if the opportunity offered itself…

Max cut that thought off before it could form.

But watching her gesture with her toast, rambling about healthcare, he was already turning over how to phrase the suggestion.

‘I might have a solution if you would shut up and stop ranting for two minutes.’ His voice sliced clean through her tirade.

She paused mid-gesture, toast hovering. ‘A solution? What, are you going to start a charity for impoverished writers? Are you buying the NHS?’

‘You need money. I need something else.’ His tone was precise, measured. The same one he used for million-pound deals.

‘Woah. If this is leading to some dodgy proposition involving your bedroom, I should warn you: I know jiu-jitsu.’

‘Don’t be crude. And what makes you think it would happen in the bedroom?’ The mental image of her legs hooked around him here on the counter sent a tingling pressure up his spine.

A hint of pink climbed the sides of her face at his words.

Interesting.

‘First, I need to know that I can trust you,’ he said.

‘Cross my heart!’ She drew an X over his Cambridge logo with dramatic flair. ‘Scout’s honour. Though I was kicked out of the Brownies for questioning authority, so maybe that’s not the best oath.’

Max pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I need a wife.’

‘I’m sorry, what?’

‘To inherit everything – the castle, the distillery, the estate – I need to be married before my thirtieth birthday in six days.’

‘And that’s relevant to me because…?’ But her eyes sharpened with interest.

‘Because I’m offering you a business arrangement. A marriage of convenience. Marry me. One year, strictly professional. You get financial security, I get my inheritance. We both win.’

She stared at him for a few seconds. Then she burst out laughing. ‘Oh, that’s brilliant! For a second there, I thought you were…’ Her words fizzled out as she studied his face. ‘Fuck. You’re serious.’

‘Entirely.’

‘You want to marry me? Me. The woman who broke into your castle less than twelve hours ago.’

‘Creatively accessed. And think of it as a business merger.’ His voice remained steady despite his racing pulse. ‘You need capital, I need a partner who won’t try to take advantage. You have no reverence for my position or wealth, which makes you…suitable.’

‘Suitable?’ She repeated the word like it tasted funny. ‘Have you met me? That’s the worst proposal in the history of proposals. And I once got asked by a guy doing a handstand in Wetherspoons with his arse out.’

‘This isn’t a proposal, it’s a proposition.’

She didn’t seem interested. This wasn’t going according to plan, which rarely ever happened. What would Martin have done? Martin wouldn’t have ended up in this kind of mess in the first place. And Max was only standing knee-deep in disaster because Martin wasn’t here.

And Martin wasn’t here because of him.

Rowan’s cheeks flushed crimson, her fingers toying with the hem of his jumper.

He wasn’t ready to let her off the hook yet. ‘Only one year. Financial security for you and your grandmother. One-third paid at contract signing, one-third in twelve monthly instalments, and the final third as a settlement after the full year, along with an amicable divorce.’

Emotions flashed across her face like pages in a flip book. Disbelief, outrage, consideration, calculation, doubt, temptation. The honesty of her expressions fascinated him. How did she survive this world being so readable?

‘You’re absolutely mental,’ she said finally. ‘Completely round the bend. Aff yer trolley.’

He held her stare and ignored the way his heart pounded. ‘Is that a no?’

‘It’s a “you can’t be fucking serious, pal”.’

But she was thinking about it. He saw the gears turning.

‘What’s the catch, Maxwell?’

‘Besides legally binding yourself to a stranger for a year?’

‘Yeah, besides that minor detail.’

He straightened his tie, buying time. ‘We would need to be convincing. The clause specifically prevents marriage fraud.’

‘So we’d have to… What? Hold hands at events? Share a bed?’

‘Live together. Appear as a normal couple.’ He kept his tone impersonal. ‘Nothing inappropriate.’

‘Right, because there’s nothing inappropriate about a fake marriage.’ She slid off the counter and paced barefoot on the stone slabs. ‘This is insane. You’re insane.’

‘I prefer the term visionary.’

‘But you hardly know me!’

‘I know you’re brazen enough to break into a castle for a story, but so principled you had to tell me why you need the money. You’re educated, articulate, and capable of handling yourself in any situation. Most importantly, you seem to dislike everything about my lifestyle, which means you won’t try to maintain it after we separate.’

She stopped pacing and stared at him with huge eyes. ‘That’s surprisingly astute.’

‘I am an astute businessman.’

‘You’re a madman.’ But she was smiling now, that daring glint back in her eyes. ‘What if I’m a rare female serial killer? A black widow?’

‘Then I suppose I’ll die knowing I made an interesting mistake.’

A startled laugh slipped out. ‘God, you really fucking mean it.’

‘I do.’ He allowed himself a calculated smile. ‘Though I would appreciate if you would stop stealing my coffee.’