Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

M ax stood at the study window and watched puffy clouds scud across the Highland sky, like sheep herded by an invisible collie. Behind him, the small gathering of witnesses shifted and murmured. Their presence made the study feel smaller, more confined. Even the air was dense. Mrs MacPherson had attempted to soften the room’s severity with white roses and sprigs of heather in crystal vases.

Max adjusted his cuffs, a habit that steadied him. But the gesture rang hollow today.

His wedding day.

It didn’t feel like it.

It didn’t feel like anything.

The registrar arranged her papers on his father’s desk. The same desk where Max had proposed this arrangement three days ago. Where his father had spent countless hours managing the estate. Now it would witness a marriage. One his parents would have disapproved of.

And yet it was their fault.

A quiet knock preceded Oliver’s discreet entrance. ‘She’s ready, Sir.’

Max nodded once, shoulders straightening beneath his suit. The classical music – Pachelbel’s Canon in D , because Mrs MacPherson insisted some traditions must be observed – seemed to pause with his breath as the door opened again.

Rowan entered like the first light of dawn after a long, dark night.

The dress flowed around her petite frame. Her hair was loosely swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck. And she wore his grandmother’s pearl drops. Their soft gleam echoed the dress’s sheen.

She looked…right. As if she had stepped out of one of the portraits lining the walls. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Their eyes met across the study. Her lips quirked in that half-smile that suggested she found the whole situation absurd.

‘Quite the shindig,’ she murmured as she took her place beside him. ‘Love what you’ve done with the place.’

‘Behave,’ he whispered back.

The registrar began to speak. ‘We are gathered here today…’

Max let the words wash over him and tuned into the subtle warmth of her presence at his side. She stood still, her small hand in his, but he felt the tension thrumming through her. The urge to steady her was unexpected.

‘Do you, Maxwell Alexander Drummond, take Rowan MacKay as your lawful wedded wife?’

The ring was heavy in his pocket. Rose gold and cairngorm, worn smooth by generations of Drummond women. Using it for this arrangement held a hint of betrayal, but needs must.

‘I do.’ His voice came out calm. And why wouldn’t it? There were no promises to honour, no love, nothing else inappropriate. Just paperwork and smoke and mirrors.

‘And do you, Rowan MacKay, take Maxwell Alexander Drummond as your lawful wedded husband?’

‘I do.’ A hint of humour coloured the words as if she couldn’t believe it.

The ring slid onto her finger with surprising ease. It was a touch too wide, but they could fix that later. Her breath hitched as the metal landed against her skin, but her hands were steady as she placed a plain band on his finger. It felt alien, constricting.

‘I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.’

Rowan squared her chin, green eyes bright with challenge and something else he couldn’t name. He bent down, meaning to keep the kiss perfunctory. Professional. But when their lips met, her warmth disarmed him. Her mouth was soft and yielding, and the scent of her skin – vanilla and citrus – flooded his senses.

A business transaction. Nothing else.

Max pulled back, angry at himself for letting his control slip. Again. Her cheeks were pink, lips soft, breath unsteady. He turned to the desk where the marriage certificate waited for their signatures.

The scratch of pen on paper calmed him. Signatures, witnesses, dates. This was what mattered. The legal framework that would secure his inheritance, his reputation. A formality, as impersonal as filing a tax return.

But as Rowan signed her name with a flourish, the ring glinted. It sat on her hand like it had been waiting for her all along.

Nonsense, of course.

Slater produced a bottle of Drummond’s Finest 18-year-old single malt. ‘Traditional toast for the happy couple. All the best from the distillery team.’

Max accepted a glass, watching Rowan charm their small audience with her quick wit and genuine warmth. Her dress shimmered as she moved through the study to be congratulated. Mrs MacPherson was already looking at her with motherly approval, while Oliver suppressed a grin like a proud, grumpy uncle.

The liquid burned Max’s mouth, but couldn’t wash away the lingering taste of her lips.

‘Time for a proper toast in the drawing room,’ Mrs MacPherson declared.

‘Well then, husband,’ Rowan said with a cheeky smile. ‘Shall we?’

Max offered his arm because that was what was expected. Her fingers settled in the crook of his elbow. Together, they left the study – his father’s former domain, now the site of this peculiar ceremony – and stepped into their new reality.

The ring felt heavy. But not, Max realised with growing unease, as heavy as the weight of what they had done.

In the drawing room, Mrs MacPherson distributed champagne with precision. Light caught the rising bubbles in each crystal flute, forming tiny constellations. Rowan’s hand remained tucked in Max’s elbow. Her fingers pressed a fraction harder than necessary.

‘To the happy couple.’ Mrs MacPherson raised her glass. She seemed to buy into it. ‘May you bring each other what’s needed, in ways neither of you expect.’

He felt Rowan’s quiet inhale at those words. She fit against his side as naturally as if they had rehearsed it. Which they had, somewhat. Everything was calculated.

Time for the next act.

‘A toast to my wife.’ Max raised his glass. ‘Your strength and spirit are extraordinary. The way you challenge everything, question what others take for granted. I’ve never met anyone like you.’ He paused. There was a truth to it that even he couldn’t deny. ‘And now here we are. To my best acquisition ever – my wife, Lady Rowan Drummond of Dunmarach.’

‘Hear, hear!’

She leaned into him, a soft weight against his side.

‘The dress suits you perfectly,’ Mrs MacPherson said. ‘As if it were made for you. But it was made for Lady Margaret in 1925. I’m so glad I found it in good nick.’

‘Oh yes, it’s gorgeous! Thank you so, so much, Mrs MacPherson.’ Rowan smoothed the vintage silk and smiled at her.

The way it lit up her face caught somewhere in his chest. He ignored it on principle. She was striking in her own way, but her looks didn’t matter. Or they shouldn’t. Still, he was only a man, and she was…his wife.

The small talk drifted around them like leaves. Polite, inevitable, random. Max answered questions about salmon crudités, Drummond’s Finest, love at first sight (as expected), and honeymoon arrangements (there weren’t any) while attuned to every movement Rowan made. The shift of her weight. The way she tucked a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. Was he afraid that she might do something unpredictable? Possibly. He didn’t know her after all.

She was a risk. A risk he had to take.

‘Thank you all for sharing this special day with us, but I believe it’s time I took my wife to dinner.’ It came out smoother than he felt, calibrated for their audience. ‘Just the two of us.’

‘Oh, I can’t wait,’ Rowan murmured through a smile, and only Max caught the dry thread in her tone.

After everybody said their goodbyes, he guided her toward the door, eager to escape the pressure of expectations and tradition. And all those curious, prying eyes.

But as they stepped into the corridor, her hip bumped against his, and it dawned on him that being alone with her carried a different kind of risk.

The Torridon Hotel rose from the Highland landscape like something from a fairy tale, all stone turrets and glowing glass. Rowan’s nose almost touched the car window. The silk of her wedding dress hissed softly over the leather seats as Ollie navigated the winding drive.

Beside her, Max sat with the confidence of someone who belonged in five-star hotels. His cufflinks glinted in the fading light. She glanced down at her ring.

Holy shite. I’m a respectable woman now. Haha.

As soon as they arrived, a man in a suit – clearly the one running the show – led them through the restaurant like royalty, past tables of diners who pretended not to stare. She concentrated on not tripping over the dress, hyper-conscious of Max’s hand hovering near the small of her back.

Their table overlooked the loch, silver in the gloaming. Rowan counted three forks and suppressed a nervous giggle. Her usual dining experience involved takeaway curry and Netflix. On special days, maybe Paesano’s or Spuntini’s.

‘The wine list.’ The sommelier materialised beside Max, who accepted it with natural ease.

She took in her freshly-minted, old-money husband over the rim of her water glass. He looked so at home among the starched linens and polished silver, as if he’d been born knowing which fork to use first. Which he had. Meanwhile, she felt like an impostor in borrowed silk. Which she was.

‘Do tell,’ she said when the sommelier glided away, ‘is this the jaunt where you bring all your fake wives?’

The line of his jaw drew taut. ‘I chose it to be seen with you.’

Of course. This was all part of the ruse.

‘And for the Michelin star, I’m sure.’ She unfolded her napkin. ‘I wouldn’t have said no to pizza, though.’

‘This maintains appearances.’

Her mind drifted back to the ceremony, to Max standing there like the modern incarnation of some brooding Celtic deity in a perfect suit. To the weight of centuries in that simple band of gold and amber.

And to that kiss… Christ, that kiss.

She’d expected detached efficiency, like signing a contract with lips instead of ink. But he’d kissed her like she was made of ice and gunpowder, like she might either dissolve or explode.

A business transaction wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

The working girl in a borrowed dress, marrying the laird in his castle. Except in proper fairy tales, the bride didn’t have to fake it, and the groom’s touch didn’t leave her skin buzzing like she’d licked a battery.

Silence stretched between them, delicate as a soap bubble on the verge of bursting. She turned the water glass between her fingers, watching condensation bead on the crystal.

‘What’s your favourite comfort food?’

He blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You know, what do you eat when you’re sad or stressed? Everyone has something. Mine’s mac and cheese.’

He assessed her, checking for traps. ‘Shepherd’s pie.’

‘Are you serious?’ His answer surprised her. She’d expected something posh, like caviar or quail eggs. Or the sautéed hearts of his rivals.

‘The school cook used to make it.’ His voice took on a shade more ease. ‘On Wednesdays.’

‘Boarding school, right?’ She caught something flickering across his face. ‘From what age?’

‘Twelve.’

She imagined a boy with stormy eyes, sent away from home so young. A pang shot through her heart. ‘That must have been so lonely.’

‘It was character-building.’ His tone was brisk, but his fingers drummed against the tablecloth.

A tell she was learning to recognise.

Their first course arrived, something delicate involving scallops and foam. She kept her attention on using the correct fork, knowing full well that he was watching her.

Thank the universe for Pretty Woman.

‘What about university?’ she asked between bites. ‘Let me guess – Cambridge? Hence the jumper.’

‘Cambridge.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘Economics.’

‘Makes sense.’ She grinned. ‘Bet you were president of the rowing club or something equally posh.’

‘No. Not much of a people person, as you might be able to tell.’

The conversation flowed a bit easier with time like a stream finding its path between rocks. His answers remained measured, but occasionally she caught glimpses of the man behind the polished facade. The way his eyes crinkled when he was amused. The enthusiasm in his voice when whisky came up, a passion so natural he didn’t even notice how it softened him.

Max Drummond was a puzzle of broken pieces and concealed layers, each one more confounding than the last. A man who loved shepherd’s pie, but navigated haute cuisine on a daily basis. Who’d been sent away at twelve but spoke about it with practised indifference.

She was warming up to him.

‘Ready for the wedding night, Mrs Drummond?’ His tone was light, but something lurked beneath the words.

‘Are you trying to seduce me, Mr Drummond?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ But his eyes lingered on her lips for a heartbeat too long. ‘I’m tired. Since we need to keep up appearances, we will have to share a bedroom tonight. Mine.’

What was his bedroom like? A sterile marble-and-leather mausoleum? Whips and paddles – full Mr Grey? Or a pod filled with a nutrient solution?

‘In his capacity as the trust’s representative, Blackwood is staying the night,’ Max declared.

‘Seriously? Is he camping next to our bed?’

‘Don’t be silly. He’s next door, in the former valet’s room.’

‘Oh, do I have to fake an orgasm to make it real? I’m rather good at it.’

‘That’s not the brag you think it is,’ he said. Then, after a beat, ‘With me, you never have to fake it.’ His face looked even broodier than before.

Whew, Drummond.

‘You can talk all you want, we’ll never find out anyway.’ She got up and her dress rode up her shins.

‘Rowan?’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Are you wearing your Doc Martens?’

The silk swished around her ankles as she peeked down at her feet. ‘Yeah, the shoes Mrs MacPherson put out were too small.’ She wiggled her toes in the well-worn boots. ‘Besides, they’re my something old. And the dress is long enough so you don’t see it. Win-win.’

‘Unbelievable.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Ready?’

‘To non-consummate our fake marriage? Anytime, hubby.’

Max’s bedroom was a surprise. Modern and masculine, but not cold. Charcoal walls, leather armchairs, and white linens on a huge bed that dominated the room.

‘Nice lair you’ve got for someone who’s never here. Very Ralph Lauren meets Highland bachelor pad.’

He ignored her and busied himself with his laptop at a desk by the window. His shoulders formed a rigid line under his shirt.

She grabbed her overnight bag and retreated to the ensuite. The bathroom was more spacious than hers, with a rainfall shower that could easily fit two people. Not that she was thinking about that.

Why would she on her wedding night?

She changed into her usual sleep shirt, another old Taylor tee. It was cosy and familiar and that was what she needed. When she came out of the bathroom, Max’s head snapped up.

‘You need proper pyjamas.’

‘What, this not fancy enough for you? The contract didn’t say anything about sleeping in posh granny gowns and—’

‘It’s inappropriate.’ His took on a darker edge. ‘Put on bottoms.’

‘Or what? You’ll write me up for dress code violations?’

‘Rowan.’ Her name came out like a warning. ‘It’s not covering your bum. I promised not to touch you, but I’m only a man. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.’

‘Och, fine.’ She dug through her bag for sleep shorts. ‘I didn’t know you were such a Victorian prude.’

‘You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m being respectful.’

‘You’re being daft. I’ve shared sleeping bags with male friends before.’

‘I’m not your friend.’

The words landed like pebbles in still water. She pulled on shorts, suddenly aware of the bed looming behind them.

‘I can sleep on the floor,’ he offered.

‘Don’t be silly. The bed’s big enough. We’ll be fine for one night.’ She laughed. ‘Unless you snore? Please tell me you don’t snore.’

‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never slept next to anyone. Not since school.’ Max disappeared into the bathroom.

Was he being serious?

Rowan heard water running and slid between sheets that felt smooth against her bare legs.

When he walked in wearing navy silk pyjamas ten minutes later, a subtle awareness tingled low inside her.

Definitely in the top thirty of Hot Hubbies under Thirty.

He moved with contained grace like a predator pretending to be tame. The bed dipped under his weight as he lowered himself on the other side, keeping a precise distance.

‘Want a bedtime story?’ she quipped in an attempt to diffuse the tension.

‘Go to sleep, Rowan.’

He switched the lights off, and darkness settled around them like a cloak. She lay still, her body keyed to Max’s magnetic presence next to her. He smelled amazing. So woodsy and warm that it made her want to bury her face in his neck. The thought was dangerous. Forbidden.

But she also felt safe. Despite the rigid control he wore like a shield, something about his presence made the chaos in her head quieten.

‘Max?’

‘Hm?’

‘Thanks for not making this too weird.’

His quiet laugh held no humour. ‘Night.’

Rowan stared into the darkness, counting heartbeats. Sleep felt impossible with him, so close yet untouchable. Her husband. A total stranger.