Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

A ll night, Max had been attuned to Rowan. Her breathing, the dip in his mattress, her scent that shredded his self-control. The inches between them had felt like miles and yet impossibly close, his body reacting to her every tiny movement until dawn.

Now, she sat across from him in one of the new outfits the stylist had sent over – no, not Hugh Grant – a cashmere jumper in a soft sage that brought out the depths of her eyes. The cut was classic but relaxed, draping just so across her collarbones. She had paired it with high-waisted cream trousers that skimmed her slight figure before tapering to show off pristine white trainers. The whole ensemble walked that perfect line between polished and comfortable.

But that wasn’t what pulled him in. It was the way she carried herself. She could have worn a bin bag and looked like a duchess.

Her hair, still damp from the shower, curled against her neck in a way that pulled at his gaze and refused to let it go. How had he become a man who fixated on such things?

He blamed sleep deprivation.

‘Coffee?’ Mrs MacPherson appeared with the silver pot, her practical presence a welcome distraction.

‘God, yes!’ Rowan’s enthusiasm made the housekeeper smile. ‘I mean, yes, please. That would be very kind.’

Steam rose from the Spode china as Mrs MacPherson poured. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with toast and bacon, but Max’s appetite had vanished the instant Blackwood entered.

The solicitor sat like a gargoyle in a tweed suit at the far end of the table, spreading jam on his toast while radiating disapproval. A glint flashed across his glasses as he inspected them over the morning paper.

‘Sleep well, Mr Blackwood?’

Rowan’s innocent tone set off warning bells. Fascinating, how he had only known her for a couple of days, and yet he already sensed when she was up to something.

And right now, she was up to something.

‘Adequately.’

Max reached for the Financial Times , determined to maintain a veneer of normalcy.

‘Oh, I’m so glad to hear that.’ Her eyes danced with wicked amusement. ‘You see, my husband was tireless last night. Relentless, really. But I suppose that’s what they mean by marital bliss and a wonderful wedding night, isn’t it?’

Blackwood’s toast paused halfway to his mouth.

‘In your role as our watchdog, you must be thrilled. We did try to be quiet – but, well, you know how it is. Or…maybe you don’t?’

Coffee sloshed over the rim of Max’s cup.

‘Perhaps we could discuss the trust paperwork,’ the solicitor suggested stiffly.

Rowan speared a strawberry with delicate precision. ‘I mean, you did camp out next door to monitor our wedding night.’

‘The trust requires—’

‘Audio verification?’ She popped the strawberry into her mouth.

Max lowered the paper. ‘Rowan.’

‘What?’ She blinked. ‘Just keeping things transparent for our dear friend here.’

‘Mr Blackwood is performing his duties,’ Max ground out.

‘As were we. So many times, tiger .’ She turned to the solicitor with a disarming smile, the kind that could charm the clouds into parting. ‘Tell me, is eavesdropping on intimacy in the job description? Is that why you studied law?’

Blackwood’s fingers locked around his coffee cup. ‘I merely—’

‘Though I suppose it’s better than watching.’ Rowan tapped her chin. ‘Unless you’re into that sort of thing.’

Part of Max – the part not occupied with damage control – admired her ability to wield awkwardness like a dagger. To baffle people into submission. Blackwood looked ready to combust. It was a joy to watch.

‘The trust requires verification of cohabitation,’ the solicitor said.

Rowan’s smile was pure Christmas morning wonder. ‘And what’s the verdict?’ She got up and sauntered around the table, trailing an index finger along the rim. ‘Getting sufficient material for your report?’

She was magnificent when she went for the jugular. The thought ambushed Max before he could suppress it.

‘I think that’s quite enough discussion of—’ Blackwood choked on his coffee, spluttering as he set the cup down with a sharp clink. He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin before finishing, ‘—private matters.’

‘Private?’ Rowan perched herself on Max’s lap as if it were her throne.

Her casual claim on his personal space should have triggered his defences, yet his body betrayed him, shamelessly responding to her fire.

‘Nothing about this is private. But I’m sure you’re merely conducting your due diligence. Do you need to see the sheets? No blood stains, I’m afraid. That ship sailed ages ago.’

This time it was Max who choked.

Her audacity was a weapon. The way she turned discomfort into an attack, precise and merciless, made his pulse pound against the stiff line of his shirt. Every calculated word dripped with enough honey to make the sting worse, and watching Blackwood squirm stirred something in Max’s chest. Her weight on his lap felt dangerous, like holding lightning in a jar. And the scent of her hair eviscerated his restraint.

This woman was lethal. A loaded gun wrapped in cashmere and cheeky smiles.

Absolutely phenomenal.

He was so turned on by her right now.

No.

Max shifted in his chair to stop her from getting too close to the evidence of his…admiration.

Jesus . No .

‘We should stick to business,’ Blackwood suggested, composure hanging by a thread.

‘But this is business.’ Rowan’s tone could have stripped paint, while her fingers followed Max’s jawline, raising every hair on his neck. ‘Making sure the newlyweds consummate their marriage? Doesn’t get any more business-like than that.’

Her small frame radiated heat through his suit, and Max suppressed the urge to settle his hands on her hips to pull her closer.

‘The trust has certain standards—’ Blackwood began.

‘Standards for love?’ Rowan’s laugh cut, clear as glass. ‘Is there a manual? “Proper Procedures for Verifying Marital Relations”?’

He had to stop her. But hell, he didn’t want to.

‘That’s enough.’ Max’s voice carried the authority to sever the moment before it could spiral further. ‘Mr Blackwood, I believe we have the last documents to review?’

‘Yes, quite so.’ The solicitor leapt from his chair. ‘In the study, perhaps?’

Max watched Blackwood’s hasty retreat with a wave of satisfaction. He had been reduced to a shell by a small woman with a cutting tongue.

A tongue, Max realised, he would like to taste.

The sight of a shrunken Blackwood filled him with an unfamiliar lightness – a bubbling sensation that took him a second to recognise as joy. When was the last time he had felt…this? This spark of vindication mixed with something warmer, more profound. The knowledge that someone had his back, had chosen to fight his battles with wit and irreverence.

His wife.

These two words echoed in his mind like a bell tone. The thought that Rowan’s presence in his life might be more than a business arrangement sent a flare of panic through his chest. Yet he couldn’t suppress the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. This feeling of having an ally. He had forgotten what that felt like since…

No.

‘Time to let me up, darling .’ Max’s fingers flexed against her hip. Rowan’s lips brushed his cheek. She slid from his lap and took her warmth with her. Only the faint trace of her shampoo lingered, making his next breath feel somehow incomplete.

He stood, straightening his cuffs. ‘And try not to terrorise anyone while I’m gone.’

‘No promises, honey .’ She blew him a kiss that managed to be both mocking and intimate.

Flames climbed the back of his neck, biting at his skin as he followed Blackwood from the room. The solicitor’s shoulders were rigid with indignation.

‘Your wife is rather…direct.’

‘Indeed.’ Max kept his tone neutral, though something possessive flared in his chest at Blackwood’s use of the word ‘wife’.

‘Some would even say crude. The trust may have concerns about her suitability.’

Max stopped walking. ‘The trust’s requirements said nothing about personality.’

‘Nevertheless—’

‘Nevertheless, she is my wife. And more than capable of handling herself, as you have just witnessed.’

Blackwood’s mouth pinched. ‘That’s what concerns me.’

‘That a woman can hold her own? I see how that could be unsettling for a small man with an antiquated worldview. I suggest you keep to the paperwork,’ Max said, ‘and leave my wife’s suitability to me.’

They reached the study, but his thoughts remained in the dining room with Rowan. The way she had gone straight for Blackwood’s weak spots while looking butter-wouldn’t-melt innocent.

It was unspeakably, irresistibly sexy. Mesmerising.

To his surprise, he was increasingly curious about what she would be like in bed. What it would take to make her surrender…

Hold your horses, Drummond. She said no and that’s that.

The marriage might be arranged, but his wife was proving anything but predictable. The thought should have worried him more than it did. Heaven help him, but he was looking forward to whatever chaos Rowan created next.

As long as she directed it at someone else.

The study door clicked shut behind them with the finality of a prison cell. Max sauntered to his usual position by the window, needing the illusion of escape. Blackwood stood at the desk, needing the illusion of importance.

Max kept his focus on the distant hills. ‘The final documents that the marriage is valid?’

‘In a minute.’ Papers rustled. ‘First, I think we need to discuss your situation.’

‘My marriage, you mean?’ He turned, leaning against the windowsill with calculated casualness. ‘I wasn’t aware that needed discussing beyond the legal requirements.’

‘Come now, Maxwell.’ Blackwood removed his glasses and polished them. ‘You didn’t even have a girlfriend five days ago. Then suddenly you’re married to a stranger? I’m not stupid.’

‘Not a stranger.’ The lie rolled off his tongue. ‘We know each other.’

‘Really?’ Blackwood’s eyebrows rose. ‘How convenient that no one knew about this relationship until the trust’s deadline loomed.’

‘My private life is exactly that. Private.’

‘A secret romance? With a woman who conveniently appeared out of nowhere, just when you needed a bride?’

Max’s fingers stilled on the windowsill. ‘I saw her, and I knew.’

‘Knew what?’

‘That she was the one. I mean, you’ve met her. She’s gorgeous. Brilliant. Unexpected.’

At least that part wasn’t a lie.

‘The heart wants what it wants, Blackwood. Which is impossible for you to know, since you don’t have one. No offence. Now, those documents—’

‘Tell me, what did she cost?’ Blackwood’s glasses threw back the study’s dim light and turned his pale eyes into empty mirrors.

The words shot like ice through Max’s veins. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Your arrangement.’ Blackwood’s voice dripped with disdain. ‘How much are you paying her? Or did you find some other way to convince a who—’

Max moved before conscious thought caught up. His hands grabbed Blackwood’s shirtfront, throwing the older man against the wall behind the desk. Fury blazed through his veins, hot and foreign.

‘If you dare finish that sentence,’ Max’s voice went deadly quiet, ‘I will make your life extremely fucking unpleasant.’

‘Struck a nerve, have I?’

Max’s grip hardened. ‘Listen carefully, you pompous shit. That woman is my wife. My wife! You will treat her with respect, or I will personally destroy everything you’ve built. Your practice. Your reputation. Your insignificant life. I’ll grind it all to dust and make you eat it. Are we clear?’

‘Chivalry.’ Blackwood wheezed. ‘Almost convincing.’

‘Unlike your piss-poor attempts at intimidation.’ Max released him with a disgusted shove. ‘You’re out of your depth, Richard. That’s why you’re lashing out.’

Blackwood straightened his tie. ‘The trust won’t be fooled by this charade.’

‘The trust’s requirements have been met. The clause in my father’s will is satisfied.’ Max’s tone could have frozen whisky. ‘Unless you would like to explain to the board why you’re harassing the primary beneficiary and his lawfully wedded wife?’ He closed the distance between them again, letting his height advantage work for him. ‘And questioning its validity without proof could be seen as slander.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Try me.’ Max smiled, all teeth and threat.

‘I will find out what’s really going on, Maxwell. This isn’t over.’

‘Oh, I think it is.’ Max moved to the desk. ‘Now, shall we review those last parts?’

‘At least that trash is Scottish,’ Blackwood said. ‘The trust might appreciate that small mercy.’

‘I changed my mind. Get out before I hit you.’

‘The papers—’

‘Can wait, my assistant will arrange for it via email.’ Max’s knuckles went white against the desk’s rim. ‘Get. Out.’

The door closed behind Blackwood, leaving Max alone with the thundering of his pulse and the echo of rage in his bones. What the hell had just happened? He never lost control like that. Never let emotion override strategy. He had built his reputation on never letting feelings cloud his judgement.

Losing it now, over an insult that should have rolled off him, felt like a crack in his foundation.

Yet the moment Blackwood had implied… Jesus. The memory alone made his hands shake. The need to defend Rowan had bypassed all his barriers. It made no sense. Their marriage was what Blackwood accused – a paid arrangement. He had no claim to righteous anger, no right to feel protective of a woman who was essentially his business partner and in no need of protection.

But Blackwood’s vile insinuation had felt like a physical blow. To both of them.

And Max couldn’t bear it.

He crossed the study’s length, trying to analyse his reaction. The violence of his response disturbed him. One word against Rowan, and he had been ready to put it all on the line by nearly assaulting a solicitor.

Footsteps in the corridor made him freeze. He recognised Rowan’s light tread. His body tensed, anticipating her presence. She passed without stopping and her steps faded toward the library. Max released a breath.

What was happening to him?

The morning light glinted off his wedding ring and made the gold gleam. He rolled it under his thumb, the unfamiliar weight a constant reminder of how she had infiltrated his ordered world.

Not even twenty-four hours married, and already she was disrupting everything. His discipline, his plans, his peace of mind. Her presence felt like static in his signal, crackling with interference that made it impossible to think straight.

Blackwood’s parting shot reiterated in his mind. ‘I will find out what’s really going on.’

Max’s molars ground hard. Let him try. He had faced worse threats than a greedy small-town solicitor with delusions of grandeur.

But as he stared out at the Highland landscape, he couldn’t shake the feeling that defending Rowan’s honour was the least of his problems. The real danger lay in how instinctive that defence had come – and what that meant.

The trust might accept their marriage as legitimate, but Max was beginning to suspect he had underestimated the true cost of this arrangement. Not in money or legal complications, but something far graver. The true danger might not be losing his inheritance. It might be losing his control. Himself.

And that should have scared him.

But it didn’t.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Two days down. Three hundred and sixty-three to go.