Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

R owan surfaced from sleep like a diver. When she slanted her eyes open, the room was so blue that she actually felt underwater. She blinked at the ceiling, where ornate plasterwork swirled into Celtic knots.

Knots.

Like…tying the knot.

‘Jesus fuck,’ she whispered. ‘That’s happening.’

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded across the room.

The ensuite bath was a converted cupboard, all awkward angles, despite the fancy tiles. Rowan stepped under the shower head and let hot water sluice over her shoulders.

‘Okay, MacKay. You’re marrying a stranger for money. No biggie. Just another Tuesday.’

The soap smelled expensive, like something that had never sat on a Boots shelf. She sniffed it. ‘Bet this costs more than my weekly food budget.’

Wrapped in a towel that felt like cuddling a cloud, she surveyed her reflection in the mirror. Same face, same constellation of freckles across her nose. But something felt different like she’d stepped into an alternate reality where working-class writers from Glasgow lived in Highland castles.

Her favourite Taylor tee – soft from a hundred washes – felt like a rebellion against the room’s grandeur. The logo was faded almost to illegibility, the black cotton gone dark grey. She gathered her damp hair into a messy bun.

Baby steps into the landed classes.

The corridor outside stretched like something from The Shining , clad in wood panels. She counted doors as she walked, trying to map the layout in her head. The whole place felt like a museum after hours.

She found Max at the kitchen island, looking like he’d stepped out of a financial magazine’s ‘Power Breakfast’ spread. His suit was pristine and his movements precise as he tapped his spoon against a hard-boiled egg. A glass of orange juice and two slices of toast completed his breakfast.

So he knows how to feed himself. That’s a relief.

The morning light caught his profile, turning him into the picture of masculine refinement. Soon she’d be having such private moments regularly. His finger would wear a ring that matched hers.

Well, it was decided. So…

‘Morning, fiancé!’ She bounced onto a stool, consciously disrupting his calm. ‘Ready for our last day of unwedded bliss? Will we have a hen and stag night? You can hang out with the actual stag on the study wall, and I—’

He didn’t even look up from his egg. ‘Good morning.’

‘That’s it? Just “good morning”? We’re getting married tomorrow, and you’re acting like we’re scheduling a dentist appointment.’

‘Would you prefer sonnets? Interpretive dance?’

‘Save the hot stuff for the honeymoon.’ She nabbed a slice of his toast, earning a cutting glare. ‘Speaking of which… We should sort out some details. Like, are you allergic to anything? Because if I accidentally kill you with a peanut butter sandwich, that’ll look suspicious.’

‘No allergies.’ He took a purposeful sip of orange juice. ‘You?’

‘Mainly capitalism and patriarchal oppression.’

‘Evidently.’

‘What about transport?’ She leaned forward, elbows on the marble counter. ‘Can I take one of your fancy motors for a spin? I promise only minimal scratches.’

‘There are no fancy cars, and you won’t need to drive. You’ll have a driver at your disposal. Oliver is always on call.’

‘What?’ Her jaw dropped. ‘Like, all the time? Is that even legal, or does it fall under modern slavery? And just to let you know: I don’t have a car, but I do have a license.’

‘The insurance wouldn’t cover it.’

As if someone like him would need insurance. He could pay for a new car from the loose change he’d find in one of his suit pockets.

‘For the love of Taylor, Maxwell. I can take the bus like a normal person.’

‘You may call me Max, that’s more suitable for our arrangement. And, in case you haven’t noticed, there are no regular buses here to get around. This isn’t Glasgow, it’s the rural Highlands. Oliver will take you wherever you need to go.’ His tone was clipped and final.

She snatched an apple from the bowl in front of him. ‘What about the wedding? Please tell me we’re not doing the Highland circus with bagpipes and all that.’

‘Small ceremony here at Dunmarach. Only a few witnesses – Oliver, Mrs MacPherson, Blackwood, and Slater from the distillery.’

‘No bridesmaids, no party, no J?gerbombs?’ She smirked and bit into the apple.

‘It’s a business deal, Rowan, not a pub crawl. The ceremony is a formality.’

‘I know. And where’s that formality taking place?’

‘In the study.’

‘Ah, Mini-Hogwarts. Cosy. And what am I supposed to wear? My best Primark dress might not cut it.’

‘Good point.’ He pulled out his phone, thumbs flying across the screen. ‘Mrs MacPherson will handle it.’

‘You’re texting her now? About my dress?’ Her eyebrows shot up. ‘You know, I’m starting to think you’re not a real person. You’re some sort of robot trained to be the most efficient man in the history of efficiency.’

‘Think what you want, but you need to look the part for the official portrait. And I don’t suppose you have a wedding dress in your backpack along with your “Eat the Rich” collection.’

‘Portrait?’ She nearly choked on her apple. ‘Like, proper oil and canvas?’

‘Photography.’ He pushed aside his empty plate. ‘We’re not completely medieval.’

‘Could’ve fooled me, what with the castle and the arranged marriage.’ She took a gulp of coffee to hide her racing thoughts behind the mug. ‘So, about the whole “living together” thing. What are our meal arrangements?’

He sighed. ‘We’ll eat together when our schedules align and the occasion warrants it. Other than that, I’ll be busy with work most days or travelling for business. Mrs MacPherson will organise a cook.’

‘Noted. But tell me again how we’re going to convince people we’re in undying, everlasting love?’ She crossed her arms.

He set down his phone, finally meeting her eyes. ‘We’ll practice, as you said. Physical affection, getting used to each other.’ His tone was curt. ‘To be convincing.’

‘Oh, right.’ Her neck burned.

They stared at each other across the counter, the morning silence stretching between them.

‘Come here,’ Max said quietly.

Rowan slipped off her stool and rounded the counter. He sat still, his posture was rigid. Like he was bracing himself for something unpleasant. She frowned. Was this as awkward for him as it was for her? He didn’t strike her as the touchy type. But if they were going to sell this charade, they had to start somewhere. Her pulse ticked faster as she stepped into his space.

‘So.’ She put on a breezy tone. ‘This is about fooling the trust, right?’

Max gave the barest nod, but the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed him. He clearly didn’t want to do this, but he seemed to think it was necessary.

‘We should start with something simple,’ he said.

‘Yes. We need to figure out how to touch each other without looking like we’re about to break out in hives.’

He stood up. An all-around impressive specimen, no doubt about that.

It’s simply not fair. He must have a micro-penis or something. Well, I shall never find out.

Rowan inched nearer, enough to catch his scent – clean and woody, with a hint of something darker and more complex.

And then something happened.

He lifted his hand, and time crystallised around the gesture. His fingers caught a wayward strand of her hair with unexpected gentleness, like cradling the flame of a match. The touch whispered across her cheek as he tucked it behind her ear, but then his thumb traced the arc of her cheekbone.

The grey in his eyes warmed to a clouded blue. Something unshielded flashed in their depths, gone so quickly she must have imagined it. But his thumb lingered against her skin for one heartbeat, two, three.

Her usual arsenal of quips and comebacks evaporated. She was caught in this impossible moment where Maxwell Drummond touched her like she was precious.

When he withdrew his hand, the morning air felt chilly against her face. Rowan searched for her misplaced composure while her pulse did its best impression of a drum solo.

This was a performance, nothing more.

So why did her skin still feel branded where his thumb had been?

‘Well,’ she managed, her voice slightly unsteady. ‘That was…almost convincing.’

‘Promising start.’ His face gave nothing away, but something in his voice sounded rougher than usual.

‘Okay, next move. Put your arm around me, Maxwell.’

‘Max.’

‘Right, yes. Your arm, Max. Around me. Like couples do.’ It felt safer to hide behind her usual cocky self. ‘I promise I won’t bite. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.’

The look he gave her could have frozen hell over twice. But he complied.

She shifted. ‘Relax a bit, will you? I’m your fake fiancée, not a grenade that’s about to go off. Loosen up.’ She ducked under his arm, fitting herself against his side. ‘Aye, like this.’

His body was warm and solid, his jacket soft against her cheek. ‘Look, my shoulders fit perfectly under your armpit. Like a roll-on deodorant.’

She sensed a caged power beneath his suit that made her breath catch.

‘Okay, next up: hand-holding.’ She took his right hand with her left, lacing her fingers through his. Max’s skin was warm, his grip firm but gentle. The contact sent sparks racing up her arm.

‘We’re a couple. Happy and in love.’ She tried to keep her tone light. ‘Are you feeling the love yet? Are you?’

Max ran his thumb over her knuckles with careful intent, as if he was testing the edge of a blade. She felt every point of contact, the warmth of his palm against hers, the way his fingers laced through hers.

The most shocking part was how right it felt. And something molten pooled low in her core.

Oh no. Oh hell no.

‘This isn’t bad.’ Her voice came out softer than she intended. ‘Very…couply.’

‘Mmm.’

That damn thumb kept moving, tracing patterns that sparked a fire under her skin. How could this human block of marble display such gentleness?

‘We should try a proper hug. That might also be expected.’ She turned in his hold, and suddenly they were chest to chest.

His hands found their place at her waist, warm through her thin tee. She put her palms on his chest and felt his heartbeat quicken beneath the fine wool. Rowan pulled back and looked up. His eyes were even darker than they’d been before.

Oh, she was in so much trouble.

‘This is a little weird,’ she said.

‘A little.’ But he pulled her closer.

She looped her hands around his neck. ‘I think we need to stay like this for a minute. Get used to each other.’

‘Probably.’

Rowan let herself lean into him and put her cheek on his chest. He let his hand glide down and rested his palm on her lower back with the right amount of pressure. And just like that, all awkwardness faded, replaced by a strange sense of…safety. He felt like an anchor while her world was spinning. A rock her tide could surge against without fear of breaking either of them.

‘Max?’

‘Mmh?’

‘Your coffee’s getting cold.’

‘I know.’

‘Okay.’

So they stood there in the castle’s kitchen. Her own breath slowed, matching his rhythm until they were inhaling and exhaling in sync. The whole world shrunk to the sound of their breathing.

No. No. No.

‘Surprisingly effective.’ She looked up at him again. ‘We’ll make a great fake couple.’

His face was unreadable. ‘It will do.’

She stepped back to put distance between them. ‘I’m going to go. Practice my adoring gazes.’

‘I have work to do.’ His eyes stayed fixed on some point over her head. ‘You won’t see much of me.’

‘Of course, the hamster wheel.’

‘Try to refrain from setting anything on fire.’

‘No promises!’ She turned and left the kitchen, heart lurching in an erratic rhythm.

What the hell had that been? They’d gone from banter to intimate embraces in a matter of minutes. She hurried towards the stairs, her thoughts spinning. This was a potential disaster. A beautiful, chaotic, terrifying disaster, and she was pretty sure she was about to dive headfirst into the deep end.

So. Much. Trouble.

Rowan trudged up the grand staircase. Three hours of wandering the grounds hadn’t cleared her head. If anything, Dunmarach Castle’s looming presence had only thickened the haze in her mind.

‘Welcome to your new life in unearned privilege,’ she muttered and pushed open the Blue Room’s door. ‘It’s fine. Everything’s—’

The words died in her throat.

A dress lay across her bed. Pale champagne silk charmeuse. The straight silhouette spoke of another era – the 1920s when women first dared tell men to piss off. Short flutter sleeves and a boat neckline with delicate pearl beading along the trim.

Maybe Mrs MacPherson had some kind of sixth sense about these things, or maybe she’d read her size and style from the old clothes hanging in the Blue Room.

Mrs Mac, you magnificent fairy godmother!

And Rowan hadn’t even met her in person yet. But that was how it was supposed to be, right? Never be heard or seen.

One thing Rowan was hell-bent on changing while she was at Dunmarach.

She approached the dress cautiously. A pair of pearl drop earrings rested on the pillow, gleaming with quiet elegance. Likely as antique as everything around here. She picked them up and rolled one drop between her fingers.

Her wedding.

And she was doing it on her own.

Rowan’s phone felt heavy in her pocket. She should call her mum, share this moment – despite how weird it all was. But shame churned in her gut. Lying to her mother had never been her strong suit. Some daughter she was, selling herself like a plot device in a Victorian novel.

And there was no point in telling her gran. It would only confuse her.

Her thumb hovered over the call button. She had to do it, even though this call felt like defusing a bomb while blindfolded. She tracked restless circles around the room, her sock-clad feet silent on the worn Persian rug, as she spun her rehearsed tale. Mutual friends, instant connection, whirlwind romance.

Let’s get it over with .

‘A week?’ Her mum’s voice shot through the speaker. ‘You’ve known him for a week? Have you lost your mind? What does he do for work? Does he treat you well?’

‘I know how it sounds—’

‘Do you? Because it sounds like my sensible daughter’s gone mental. What did you go to university for?’

Rowan leaned her forehead against the cool window pane. ‘When you and Dad eloped to Gretna Green—’

‘Oh Christ, not that old chestnut.’ A resigned sigh filtered through. ‘Your gran’s been filling your head with those stories again, hasn’t she? All that nonsense about love at first sight and destiny.’

‘You were nineteen,’ Rowan pointed out. ‘At least I’m twenty-four.’

‘Aye, look how well it turned out for me.’

Rowan closed her eyes, her next lie tasting like copper pennies. ‘It’s different with Max. When you know, you know.’

A long pause followed, punctuated by the familiar sound of her mum’s ceramic mug being set down on the kitchen counter. ‘Stubborn as a mule.’

‘Wonder where I got that from?’

Her mum’s laugh was soft, almost wistful. ‘You’re going to do this regardless of what I say, aren’t you?’

‘Pretty much. But… Maybe you can come up here tomorrow?’

‘Naw, love. I have work. I’d have taken the day off if I’d expected my only child to get married.’

‘Okay, yeah. It’s a bit spontaneous.’

‘Are you sure about this, Rowan MacKay? You haven’t even mentioned him to me at all before. That makes a mother suspicious.’

‘Whirlwind romance, as I said. And aye, totally sure.’

Big, fat lie. Or rather, she was sure – but not for the reasons her mother thought.

I’m doing this for yous.

‘For the record: I’m not on board. But all I will say is… Don’t make me come up there in a month and clip your ear for being an eejit, love. If it all goes tits up, you better get your arse back home before I come and drag you myself. Same goes for him. If he hurts you, I’ll cut his baws and make him eat them.’

She swallowed past the lump. ‘Thanks, Maw.’

‘Rowan?’ Her mother’s voice mellowed. ‘You’re still my wee girl, and I’m looking out for you. But I also know you’re smart, so I’m choosing to trust you. Against my better judgement. Be careful, darlin’. Okay?’

‘Always.’

The call ended, leaving Rowan alone with the weight of her deception. She let the tears fall. There was no holding them back, anyway.

That was the hardest part. Now let’s see if I can say yes to the dress.

She stripped down to her underwear, avoiding the mirror’s judgement. The silk slipped over her head like water and draped over her skin with surprising weight. A few inches too long, but otherwise perfect.

Her reflection stared back. The girl who’d shared Ben’s cramped student flat for two years, who’d navigated casual hook-ups on futons and questionable sofas after their break-up seemed far away now. That Rowan belonged to a world of instant noodles, Buckfast, and late-night kebabs.

This Rowan right here wore silk and pearls, and tomorrow she’d marry a man who moved through the world like he owned it.

Nothing like her usual type.

And yet.

She remembered how his thumb had stroked her cheek. How his heartbeat had quickened when she’d touched his chest. The way his eyes had darkened when…

‘Nope.’ She shook her head hard and smoothed the silk over her hips. One last look in the mirror, one deep breath.

‘Fuck me sideways. I’m getting married tomorrow.’