Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

R owan whistled low as she entered the study behind him. ‘Damn. Did Hogwarts have a jumble sale?’

Max suppressed a grunt, but her comparison wasn’t wrong. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves dominated one wall, their volumes bound in leather and gilt. A stone fireplace commanded another wall, topped by the Drummond family crest carved in stone. Heavy curtains framed windows that overlooked the loch, filtering the Highland morning into something gothic. Stag head, dark wood, leather, the works.

Max hated it.

He took his place behind the enormous desk and regretted it immediately. This was his father’s chair. It felt like a pair of too-tight shoes.

Rowan didn’t sit down in either of the chairs facing the desk. Instead, she began to rove the room like a curious cat, letting her fingertips drift across leather-bound volumes. Her black skinny jeans and grey ‘Fuck the Patriarchy’-jumper clashed with the neo-Gothic grandeur as if she had wandered onto the set of the wrong film.

He fought the urge to roll his eyes.

She moved with deliberate slowness and examined each object as if cataloguing evidence.

‘So this is where all the important man-decisions happen, eh?’

‘If you’re quite finished with the social commentary—’

She paused at a display case, studying antique duelling pistols. ‘These fully loaded? In case this goes south?’

He slanted his eyes. ‘Can we focus, please?’

‘On your spectacularly insane marriage proposal? Sure.’

‘One year,’ he repeated. ‘Complete financial security for you and your family.’

‘And in return?’

‘You play the role of devoted wife. Attend events, charm the trustees, convince everyone this is real.’

‘So wife isn’t enough, you request devotion? While you play the role of…?’

‘Myself.’

She laughed.

‘Take it or leave it, Rowan.’

‘Take.’

She didn’t flinch. Clearly, a woman who stuck to her guns once she made up her mind. He admired that.

‘The terms need to be clear,’ he said. ‘No room for misinterpretation.’

‘Mmm. Like the fact that you’re basically buying a wife?’

‘I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement.’

‘A business merger.’ She took a book from a shelf and flipped through it. ‘With wedding rings instead of contracts.’

‘Oh, there will be contracts.’ He pulled out a portfolio. ‘I had my lawyers drew up a draft as soon as I heard of the trust’s requirements.’

She turned. ‘Prenup, I suppose?’

‘Among other things.’ He spread the preliminary documents across the desk. ‘Non-disclosure agreements, terms of separation, financial arrangements. It can be revised within thirty days of marriage, provided both parties are in agreement.’

‘How romantic.’ She replaced the book and moved to inspect antique maps. ‘Do I get a say in these terms, or am I supposed to sign wherever you point?’

‘That’s why we’re having this discussion.’

‘Ah.’ She drifted to another shelf, this one holding family photographs, and picked up a silver frame. ‘Is this you?’

He knew which photo she meant without looking. Him at seventeen, with Martin. Their last summer. Just weeks before… ‘Put that down.’

She set it back, but her eyes lingered on the image.

‘The terms,’ he said, ‘include public appearances. We’ll need to be seen together, behaving like a normal couple.’

‘Define normal. Because if you expect me to simper and hang off your arm like some trophy wife—’

‘I don’t care how you do it, but I expect you to be convincing. The trust overseeing the inheritance will be watching for any sign of fraud.’

‘So what, we share meaningful glances?’ Her fingertips touched a ceremonial Sgian Dubh. ‘Snog in public?’

‘Some physical affection would be expected, yes.’

‘Christ. But to be crystal clear: I’m not saying “to obey” in the vows.’

Her reflection in the windowpane was overlaid with the grey-green of the loch outside. She was a conundrum, an unpredictable element that clashed with the staid world he had built for himself. He had never met anyone like her, so infuriatingly opinionated and oddly authentic. She was a nuisance, yes. But she was also a practical solution to his problem. A means to an end. An opportunity.

‘This isn’t a romance. We’re not getting married in a church. That won’t even come up.’

‘Great.’ She turned to face him, hands on her hips. ‘Because I’m not a dog. I don’t obey anyone.’

‘I’m beginning to notice that.’

Her lips quirked. ‘Smart man. Also, write that down, I want full access to the archives.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Non-negotiable.’ She stopped next to a floor lamp and ran her thumb along the fringes. ‘I’m a writer, and this place is a goldmine of stories. That’s part of my payment. I came here for a story, Maxwell. I’m not giving that up.’

He stood and braced his hands on the desk. ‘These are private family records!’

‘And I’ll be family, won’t I?’

‘You’ll be my wife in name only.’

‘Give me something to work with.’ She advanced on the desk. ‘Stories. History. Things that matter.’

‘These records are sensitive and private.’

‘So supervise me.’ She was at the desk now, mirroring his pose. ‘Watch me like a hawk if you must. But I need something more than playing house. I’m a journalist and writer, not a gossip columnist.’

‘That remains to be seen.’ He was pulled into those eyes. She was tiny compared to him, yet somehow she made him feel like he was the one being cornered. She would have killed it in any boardroom, and she probably didn’t even know it. Or didn’t care.

‘Limited access,’ he conceded. ‘Under supervision.’

‘And I keep the rights to anything I write.’

‘Within reason.’ He straightened, trying to regain the upper hand in the conversation. His back was already wound up tighter than during his last high-stakes deal. ‘Nothing that could damage the family’s reputation.’

‘Reputation? You’re the one who proposed to a random trespasser. Besides, your precious family secrets are safe with me. I’m interested in the distillery’s history, not your great-aunt Gertrude’s scandalous affair with the gardener.’

Max let out an involuntary groan.

He was slipping. Years of manoeuvres, takeovers, and million-pound deals, yet this woman led him around by the nose like some green graduate fresh out of business school. Maxwell Drummond, losing control of a simple negotiation because a redhead in a provocative jumper knew precisely which buttons to push.

‘What, worried I’ll expose your historic scandals?’ Her smile was cutting. ‘Afraid I’ll find evidence of cattle rustling and illicit stills?’

The sight of her circling his father’s study made his teeth grind. Rowan MacKay seemed to thrive on challenging him. She negotiated like someone who had learned the hard way that nobody would fight her corner if she didn’t do it herself. It was bracing, in an irritating way – like a splash of ice water to the face.

‘Sign the NDA first. Then we’ll discuss what constitutes a scandal.’

She tapped her index finger on the desk. ‘Speaking of scandals and such – how convincing do we need to be in public?’

‘Enough to fool the trust, so I keep my family’s estate and distillery. That’s paramount.’

‘That’s not an answer.’ She leaned forward. ‘I need specifics, Maxwell. Where are the lines?’

He forced himself to maintain eye contact, though something about her direct gaze turned the silence between them into a thread pulled too tight.

‘Hand-holding,’ he ground out. ‘The occasional kiss. Nothing inappropriate.’

‘So you’ve said. But define inappropriate.’

‘For God’s sake—’

‘No, I mean it.’ She didn’t back down. Of course not. ‘If we’re doing this – and it looks like we are – I need to know what I’m agreeing to. Where do we sleep? What happens at social events? Do we dance? Share food? Pecks or tongue-hockey? What’s the script here?’

‘It’s not that I’ve done anything like that before, so we’ll have to improvise.’ He ran a hand through his hair, forgetting his usual composure. ‘We can have separate rooms. But as I said, we’ll need to act…couple-like.’

‘Couple-like,’ she repeated.

‘What do you want, woman? A detailed manual?’

‘Maybe!’ She threw up her hands. ‘Because right now this feels like signing a blank cheque with my body as collateral!’

‘It’s not the nineteenth century, you’re not my property. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. Never.’ The words hung between them, heavy with implications.

And if she wanted to? Would he touch her? A spark of something untamed made his pulse hitch and a slow burn worked its way up his neck. ‘What else?’

‘Separate bedrooms,’ she said. ‘I can’t sleep with other people next to me. Too much…breathing and moving and snoring. Ugh.’

‘But not on our wedding night. And we’ll need to share when we have visitors. Although considering that most of my family is in the graveyard, that shouldn’t be much of a concern.’

‘Share a room or share a bed?’

He loosened his tie. ‘That would depend on the circumstances.’

‘Circumstances?’ She gave him a dry look. ‘Either we’re sleeping in one bed or we’re not.’

‘The trust requires proof of cohabitation. But cohabitation doesn’t equal consummation.’

She was closer now, examining a chess set near the desk. ‘I won’t fake that kind of intimacy.’

He stopped and took a breath. ‘As I said, I wouldn’t ask you to. We’ll need to be convincing, but we don’t need to be intimate.’

For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to imagine Rowan spread across his sheets, her keen tongue occupied with activities far removed from verbal sparring, while his own tongue… The thought hit him low in his gut – not the usual contained attraction he felt toward the women he dated, but something more primitive, powerful. Like the first cut of whisky straight from the still, burning and pure. Part of him wanted to discover if that resistant spirit carried through to intimate moments, if she would challenge him there, too.

Max pushed the thought aside. He had no patience for distractions. He had a legacy to save.

‘Good.’ Her face gave her away, reddening slightly. ‘Because that’s off the table.’

This blush would be his undoing. It made her vulnerable in ways she wasn’t even aware of. Damn, it made him vulnerable. He had always kept his composure tight, but the way colour betrayed her…

‘Agreed.’

They stared at each other across the desk, the dusty air charged between them. He noticed details he shouldn’t – the subtle arch of her eyebrows, the determined set of her mouth, the bow of her lip.

‘What about dates?’ she asked.

He blinked. ‘What?’

‘Real couples go on dates. They have inside jokes, shared experiences. We need a backstory that’s more than “met under a tree while committing minor felonies”.’

‘You’re the storyteller. Think of something. I don’t care.’

‘We met through mutual friends.’ She ticked points off on her fingers. ‘You were instantly smitten with my incredible wit and charm. I found your brooding darkness irresistible. Whirlwind romance, surprise proposal, small wedding because we’re private people.’

One brow ticked up. ‘Smitten?’

‘Would you prefer besotted? Enchanted? Bewitched? Consumed with yearning?’

‘I’m beginning to regret this already.’

But he wasn’t, not really. Something about her quick mind made this feel less like a business transaction and more like something else. Something it shouldn’t feel like.

Fun, perhaps?

He didn’t do fun.

Fun had died with Martin.

‘Too late.’ She flashed a smile that was half daring, half devil-may-care. ‘You’re stuck with me for a year now, Maxwell Alexander Drummond.’

The use of his full name struck a nerve he didn’t know was exposed. ‘Are we agreed on the terms, then?’

‘Almost.’ She planted her hands on the desk again, leaning so close that he could see the flecks of gold in her irises. ‘One more thing.’

‘What now?’

‘If we’re going to convince people we’re in love, you need to stop looking at me like I’m something you scraped off your shoe.’

‘I don’t—’

‘You do. And I get it. I’m not your type. But if this is going to work, you need to at least pretend you want me around.’

The words hit harder than they should have. He studied her face. The determination in her eyes, the rawness beneath her bravado. She wasn’t his type, true. Too short, too petite, almost boyish. And far too annoying.

No, she was something altogether more fascinating.

And that thought was unsettling.

‘I’ll work on it,’ he said.

‘Amazeballs.’ She loosened her stance. ‘Whatever this is, whatever we’re doing – we’re partners. Equal partners. No pulling rank or hiding behind your title. Got it?’

Something in her tone made him pause. ‘Okay.’

‘Now, where do I sign?’

He pushed the preliminary documents toward her. Her brow furrowed in concentration, one finger tracing lines of legal text.

What had he done?

This woman was going to turn his ordered world upside down. She would push him, rile him up.

Too late now.

‘These need work,’ Rowan announced, breaking into his thoughts. She pulled a red pen from her backpack and began marking the papers. ‘The language is too vague here.’

‘You have experience with contracts?’

‘It might surprise you, but working-class kids attend universities, too. Also, I read a lot of publishing agreements.’

He leaned forward, drawn into her rapid-fire commentary on the documents. Her suggestions were clever, practical, and silly. She had written ‘LOL NO’ next to one particular clause.

‘I also think we’ll need to practise.’ She set down her pen.

‘Practise what?’

‘Being a couple. The little things. How we touch, how we look at each other. It needs to be natural.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Och, don’t look so terrified.’ Her eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘Your body is yours. I promise not to ravish you against the bookshelves.’

‘That’s reassuring.’

‘Though it would make an awesome story.’ She gathered the marked papers into a neat stack. ‘Rich laird seduced by common writer among ancient tomes.’

As she handed him the documents, her fingers met his. There was a tiny electric spark. Unwanted, yet undeniable. He pulled his hand back, determined to ignore it.

‘This isn’t a romance,’ he reminded her.

‘God, no. Ew. It’s business. A deal.’

She held out her hand in all seriousness. It was adorable. He looked at her offered palm, then back to her face. No artifice, no games – just determination and perhaps a hint of the same madness that had possessed him to suggest this in the first place.

And they hadn’t even known each other for twenty-four hours.

He took her small hand. Her skin was warm, her grip firm. ‘A deal.’

‘Excellent.’ She nodded but didn’t release his hand.

Neither did he. ‘You’ll have to move into the castle.’

‘Good thing I already brought my bag,’ she said with a wink.

‘You’re going to be nothing but trouble, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, my dear Maxwell.’ She spoke in an exaggerated, posh accent and squeezed his hand once before letting go. ‘I already am.’

‘I’ll have the documents revised. We can finalise everything tomorrow.’

‘Perfect.’ She stretched. ‘That gives me time to practise my noble gestures.’

‘Rowan.’

‘Yes, darling ?’ She batted her eyelashes.

‘Get out of the study.’

She let out a laugh. ‘As you wish, honey .’ But she paused at the door. ‘This is bonkers, you know.’

‘I know. I’m only doing this because you’re the lesser evil.’

‘Maybe that’s what I want you to think. Well, I guess you’re about to find out. But we’re probably both going to regret it.’

‘Probably.’

She nodded once. ‘See you around, future husband.’

The door closed behind her, leaving him alone with the ghosts and the lingering scent of her shampoo. He looked down at the papers, covered in her decisive red markings, and felt something between dread and anticipation settle in his chest.

What had he done, indeed.