Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

R owan lay still and let her mind adapt to the bizarre reality that this wasn’t some hallucination brought on by too much caffeine and too little sleep. Her four-poster bed could have slept a family of five.

Lady Rowan Drummond.

‘Time to face day three of this circus.’

She swung her legs over the side and pulled on her running gear: basic leggings and a faded t-shirt. The contrast between her clothes and the room’s opulence made her huff.

She’d barely opened her door when the sight hit her like a rogue frisbee to the face.

A naked male chest greeted her with all the subtlety of a centrefold piece.

Max emerged from his room opposite hers, straight from the shower, with only a towel slung low on his hips.

Holy mother of—

Her thoughts splintered into a thousand incoherent fragments. Water droplets ran down his chest, following the defined lines of muscle like they were rivers between mountains and valleys. Max’s torso looked like it belonged on the cover of some pretentious art book – The Human Form: Volume One, Peak Perfection . And those shoulders? Broad enough to make her hands itch with the urge to measure their span. His skin held a warm golden tone and a line of dark hair disappeared beneath the towel, drawing her attention down to—

‘Good morning.’ His voice was sleep-rough.

Her gaze shot up; a traitorous flush bit into her cheeks and set her ears on fire. ‘For God’s sake, put some clothes on! There are rules about this sort of thing.’

‘In my own home? In front of my own wife?’

He lifted an eyebrow, and good grief, even that was irritatingly attractive.

‘Our home,’ she corrected. ‘Temporarily, at least. And yes, rules like “don’t parade around half-naked when your fake wife might bump right into your pecs”. Christ, I could get a bruise.’

‘I wasn’t parading, I’m not a circus elephant. The water pressure cut out mid-shower, and I’m checking the control panel. Didn’t realise I needed a formal invitation to step into my own hall.’

Water dripped from his hair onto his shoulder. Another droplet slid down his chest.

‘Also, you’re staring, Rowan. I feel objectified by your female gaze.’

‘I am most definitely not!’ She turned her eyes to the ceiling. ‘I’m averting my female gaze from this inappropriate display of muscle and masculinity.’

‘Right, that’s why you’re blushing.’

‘It’s warm in here. And all that…that…’ She gestured at his torso. ‘The whole muscles situation. Very try-hard. Bit desperate.’

He arched an eyebrow. ‘Desperate?’

‘Oh, aye.’ She nodded. ‘Let me guess – personal trainer? Protein shakes? Probably one of those blokes who grunt at the gym.’

‘I row and box, when I find the time.’

Was there a glint in his eyes? No, that couldn’t be. He was made of stone. Perfectly chiselled stone was still stone.

‘Whatever.’ She straightened her T-shirt. ‘I’m going for a run. Try to be dressed when I get back.’ Hot pressure surged through her, creeping up her chest like flames licking at dry wood. ‘Ugh. Just…get dressed!’

She fled down the corridor. Her heart thrashed, and she wasn’t even running yet. The castle’s entrance hall stretched before her. Morning light streamed through stained glass windows and painted the floor in jewel tones. Her trainers squeaked against the polished surface as she headed for the door.

‘Mrs Drummond?’

Rowan kept walking, her mind clouded with the memory of Max’s grin. Unexpectedly boyish. Cute, even. There was more lurking beneath that posh power suit than a boardroom ego and overpriced shirts.

A body that could moonlight as a statue in this very castle, for example.

‘Mrs Drummond?’

It took three more steps before the name registered, hitting her like ice water down her back.

‘Oh, right. That’s…me.’ She spun around to find Mrs MacPherson emerging from a side corridor, a knowing smile playing at her lips.

‘That’ll take some getting used to,’ Rowan said. ‘Makes me sound like I should be organising church fêtes and judging people’s scones.’

Mrs MacPherson smiled again. ‘You’ll get there. No rush.’

‘The dress…’ Rowan wrung her hands. ‘I wanted to thank you. It was perfect. Exactly what I would have chosen. And the earrings… So very pretty. Thank you, Mrs Mac.’

Mrs MacPherson’s eyes crinkled. ‘I thought they’d suit you.’

Guilt twisted in Rowan’s stomach. ‘I can’t keep them. Not when this is all…’ She caught herself. ‘I mean, we’ve only known each other such a short time.’

‘Nonsense.’ Mrs MacPherson’s tone was gentle, but firm. ‘You’re the Lady of Dunmarach. Those pearls belong with you now.’

Rowan shifted. ‘You’ve been so kind, helping arrange everything. I feel like I’m taking advantage.’

‘Not at all. I’ve known that boy since he was in short trousers. Never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.’

Another surge of fresh guilt stabbed through Rowan. If only Mrs MacPherson knew the truth. This was all a ruse. Apparently, a convincing one. She didn’t dare correct her, though. The more convincing this thing seemed, the better.

‘I’m not…I mean, we’re not like…’

Mrs MacPherson patted her arm. ‘Love comes in all shapes and speeds. Neither way’s wrong.’

The kindness in her voice made Rowan’s eyes sting.

‘Now then, will you be wanting breakfast after your run? The cook can have something ready when you return. Porridge, or a full Scottish?’

‘No, I couldn’t possibly… I can make my own…’ Rowan was about to refuse, then remembered she was living here now. Had to do what was expected. Blend in. ‘Actually, yes. A bowl of porridge would be lovely. If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Trouble?’ Mrs MacPherson’s laugh was genuine. ‘Not at all. In the dining room or—’

‘Kitchen’s fine!’ Rowan said. ‘No need for all that formal stuff. Unless… Is that not allowed?’

‘It is allowed if you say it is. So the kitchen it is. Mind, the path’s slippery after the rain.’

‘Thanks, Mrs Mac!’

Morning air hit her like a shot of clarity, washing away the lingering image of Max’s sculpted chest. Mostly. Sort of. The gravel drive crunched under her feet as she started her warm-up jog. Ahead, the grounds sprawled in that artful mess only the truly wealthy could afford – rolling greens, tree clusters, and pockets of wilderness so carefully curated they probably had a gardener on standby to ruffle the grass just so. She picked up her pace, following a path that wound through rhododendron bushes taller than houses.

Running had always been her reset button, her way of processing things when life got overwhelming. And currently, life was breaking the overwhelm-o-meter.

She’d married a stranger. A ridiculously attractive stranger with abs you could grate cheese on, but still a stranger. For money. She thought about the reasons she’d agreed to the whole thing. For her gran, for her mum, for rent that wouldn’t pay itself. For a chance to dig into a story. She needed access to the archives, as Max had promised. The path wound around an ornamental lake, where a pair of swans regarded her with aristocratic disdain.

The king can keep his angry birds.

By the time she returned to the castle, her legs burned and her head felt clearer. She found her way to the kitchen, where the cook, Mr Calder, had laid out fresh coffee, porridge, and fruit.

‘You’re a saint,’ Rowan declared, then dropped onto a stool at the central island and dug in. ‘An absolute angel.’

Mrs MacPherson smiled. ‘Mr Drummond is in his study. He asked to see you when you returned, at your leisure.’

Rowan’s good mood dimmed as she licked creamy porridge off her spoon. ‘Did he say why?’

‘No, not to me.’

‘I’d better be off then.’

But not before a shower.

Why do I even care if he sees me in my stinky state?

After a quick dip, Rowan changed into a crewneck jumper in a peach tone and slim-cut dark denim jeans. She made her way to Max’s study, rehearsing arguments about archive access in her head, wishing she’d had time to dry her hair. But showing up with wet strands was a lot better than keeping Maxwell Drummond waiting any longer than she already had.

She knocked twice, firm and decisive.

‘Come in,’ he said. ‘No need to knock.’

‘What do I know? You could’ve been watching porn.’

Max’s pen skidded across the page, leaving an inky slash through his notes. Jesus, she was like a spark in a powder keg. He looked up as she approached, irritation colliding with a pull that was reckless, volatile.

‘You summoned me, husband?’

The outfit she wore emphasised the lean strength in her narrow shoulders, the sleek lines of her frame. Those skinny jeans hugging her slender legs weren’t helping his concentration, either.

‘My birthday,’ he stated, ‘is in two days.’

‘Okay, well, mazel tov.’ She perched on the corner of his desk, scattering his papers.

‘Get off and listen,’ he said. ‘There will be a party.’

She ignored him. ‘Since we’re convening here so cordially, you promised me access to the archives. It was one of my conditions.’

He leaned back, fingers drumming against his armrest. ‘The birthday party takes precedence.’

‘Over our agreement?’ She crossed her legs, making herself far too comfortable. ‘Access was part of our deal.’

‘And you’ll get it. After we convince the trustees that this marriage is legitimate.’

‘By throwing you a party?’

‘It’s tradition. The castle always hosts a gathering for the laird’s birthday each decade.’

‘“The laird”.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Listen to yourself.’

‘This isn’t a joke.’ He stood, needing to regain some control over the situation. ‘The trustees will be here. If we can’t convince them—’

‘Then you lose everything, I know, I know. Why is this place so important to you? I mean, as far as I know, you’ve rarely ever been here until now. You live in London, right?’

Max turned to stare out the window, where mist was rolling in from the loch. How could he explain what Dunmarach meant? The weight of centuries, of promises made and broken? The ghost of his brother, laughing in these halls?

‘It’s my life’s responsibility,’ he said.

‘That’s not an answer.’

‘It’s the only one you’re getting.’ He faced her again. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs MacPherson and my assistant will do the planning. But the party needs to be perfect. Every detail matters.’

‘And I suppose I’m another detail to manage?’ A hard note crept into her voice. ‘Another asset to be controlled?’

‘That’s not—’

‘I won’t be managed, Maxwell.’ She slid off the desk and advanced on him with that fierce grace that made his pulse stammer. ‘I won’t be steered or directed or handled.’

‘I’m trying to protect both our interests.’

‘By keeping me away from the archives? That’s not protection, that’s control.’

‘The archives are private.’

‘I’m your wife.’

‘Temporarily.’

‘Still counts. Or is that only when it’s convenient for you?’

‘Row—’

‘No, I get it. I’m good enough to wear a ring and smile for your solicitor, but God forbid I actually do something with my time here.’ With simmering impatience, she cut across the study’s length. ‘What’s so terrible in those dusty old papers that you can’t let anyone see?’

‘Careful, Rowan.’

‘Or else?’ She moved closer, anger making her heedless. ‘You’ll divorce me? Go ahead. I won’t sit around looking pretty while you—’

Max’s hands itched to grab her shoulders, to shake some sense into her. Or pull her closer. Both impulses were equally infuriating. ‘This discussion is over.’

‘Like hell it is!’ She matched his stance, lifting her chin even higher to meet his gaze. ‘I’m not one of your employees you can dismiss with a wave of your hand.’

‘No.’ His voice roughened. ‘You’re my wife. And you will respect my decisions regarding this family’s privacy.’

‘Make me.’

‘Don’t test me.’

‘Or what?’ Her voice carried a challenge. ‘What will you do, Max?’

For a moment, he thought he might kiss her. His gaze dropped to her mouth as her lips parted on a half-drawn breath, and his world narrowed to that tiny movement. The fragile space between them felt charged with possibility, with the unspoken certainty that one slight shift would bring her mouth against his. His muscles tensed with the effort of restraint, every fibre screaming to grab her hips and yank her against him. To devour that defiant mouth until she melted. The wanting clawed at his chest, leaving him struggling for air that didn’t taste of her.

When had simple breathing become so difficult?

Then he stepped back and collected himself by straightening his cuffs. ‘What I’m afraid of is you writing some exposé that destroys everything we’re trying to achieve.’

‘First of all, what you are trying to achieve. Secondly: is that what you think of me?’ The hurt in her voice was masked by rage. ‘That I’d betray you the first chance I get?’

‘I don’t know what to think of you. You’re unpredictable.’

‘Good.’ She poked his chest with one finger. ‘Maybe that’s what you need.’

That touch set off a heat that wasn’t anger. Her finger lingered for a second too long, and the study felt too small, too warm.

‘The party.’ He stepped back. ‘We need to present a united front. No arguments, no sarcasm, and no taking the piss out of solicitors.’

‘So you want me to be tame and boring?’

He wanted the exact opposite. But he would rather eat mud than tell her that.

‘I want you to be convincing.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘These people aren’t idiots. They’ll catch on to your little rebel girl routine in a minute.’

‘Then let me help.’ Her tone lost its bite as frustration gave way to something softer. ‘Let me learn about this place, its history. How am I supposed to play the devoted wife and Dunmarach’s lady or something if I don’t understand what makes it special?’

This bloody smartass.

Max examined her face, searching for any sign of deception. But all he saw was genuine curiosity and that damned determination.

‘Limited access,’ he said. ‘One hour each morning, supervised.’

‘Four hours, minimal supervision.’

‘Two hours, I check in regularly.’

‘Deal.’ She grinned, triumphant. ‘When do we start?’

‘After the party.’ He held up a hand to stop her protest. ‘That’s non-negotiable. We need to focus.’

‘Fine.’ She sighed. ‘So that’s how it is being in a power couple? Underwhelming, I have to say. And what does one wear to a laird’s birthday soiree? Should I break out my plastic tiara?’

‘I’ll organise something appropriate.’

‘Appropriate,’ she echoed. ‘There’s that word again. Tell me, Maxwell, what’s appropriate about any of this?’

He stared at her mouth again, wondering what it would feel like to kiss that sardonic smile off her face. To bend her over his desk and—

‘Well, then.’ She stepped back. ‘I’ll let you get back to your brooding. Lots of important laird things to do, I’m sure.’

He straightened his jacket. ‘I have meetings all day. Please don’t turn the house upside down.’

‘House. You’re funny. I might reorganise your sock drawer.’

A muscle jumped in his jaw. ‘Rowan.’

‘Or colour-code your ties.’

‘Get out.’

She was already backing toward the door and flashed him a grin. ‘Have fun at your meetings, darling husband.’

She was almost gone when he called out, ‘Rowan.’

‘Yes?’

‘Wear the pearls.’ He didn’t know why he said it, but something in him needed to see his family’s legacy against her skin. ‘The ones from the wedding.’

‘As you wish, my laird.’ And then she curtsied.

He wanted to slap her. Kiss her. Put some respect into her.

Dammit.

The door closed behind her, but her presence clung to the room. Max sank into his chair, his world tilting beneath him.

Two days until the party. To convince everyone their marriage was real – and himself that it wasn’t. He had to ignore the way his skin burned where she touched him, had to resist the urge to push back when she met him head-on, just to see what would happen. Had to stop himself from reaching out, from testing how her hair would feel around his fist and…

He was so screwed.