Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

R esearch was meant to be an escape. Rowan stared at the ledger until the spidery handwriting blurred. Nine days in the archive, and her most significant discovery was that burying herself in centuries-old accounts did nothing to banish thoughts of Max.

The library’s panelled walls seemed to trap the August heat. She’d stripped off her cardigan, leaving her in a thin cotton vest.

‘Righto, Dugald Drummond.’ She tapped her pen against the leather-bound volume. ‘Show me how a Glasgow merchant bought himself a castle.’

The numbers were fascinating. In 1835, Dugald had swooped in like a savvy vulture and snatched up Dunmarach for what seemed like a pittance. The previous owner, drowning in debt, had given it away.

But her mind kept wandering to other, more dangerous territories. Like the way Max’s voice had dropped half an octave when he’d pressed against her at the party.

‘Stop it. He’s made it clear he regrets the whole thing.’

Max had left for London right after the party on a four-day business trip. Which was for the best, considering how close they’d come to pushing the night past the point of no return. As a nice side effect, it also left her with unsupervised access to the archive. But the castle had felt different without him. Quieter. Emptier.

Not that she’d noticed.

The past five days since his return had been an exercise in avoidance. Max had retreated behind his work, emerging only for brief check-ins that left her frustrated. Gone was the man who’d whispered a wicked promise against her neck. Was it guilt? Or did he regret letting the lines of their deal blur?

She should’ve expected it. She did expect it. Things never lasted. Not with her useless dad, not with Ben, and definitely not with a posh git she’d married for money.

Rowan exhaled and rolled her shoulders, shaking it off.

Not that she cared. Much.

It wasn’t like she caught herself listening for his footsteps or missing the way he loomed around all broody and annoying. Definitely not.

She was halfway through an interesting section when the library door opened. Her heartbeat sprang up like a deer startled in an open field.

‘How’s the research?’ Max’s voice was neutral. Too neutral.

Rowan didn’t miss the slight pause before he spoke, or the way his jaw shifted. ‘Riveting. Your great-great-whatever-grandfather had expensive taste in chandeliers.’

‘Anything useful?’

‘Define useful.’ She stretched, knowing her vest would ride up. Taunting him was dangerous. Of course, this could backfire. Her speciality.

‘I’ve learned that Dugald Drummond was either brilliant or ruthless. Probably both.’

Max moved closer, and his cologne wrapped around her like a physical touch.

‘Interesting. Show me.’ He leaned over her shoulder and his exhale stirred her hair.

Who is taunting who, I’m beginning to wonder.

‘See here?’ She pointed to a column of neat figures. ‘He swooped in when the MacLeods were in dire straits, offering just enough to clear their crippling debts but nowhere near the estate’s value.’

‘Smart business.’

‘After the MacLeods had lived here for centuries? Cold-blooded, more like. Must run in the family.’

A muscle ticked in his cheek. ‘Don’t push it.’

‘Or what? You’ll avoid me even harder?’

‘I’ve been working.’

‘Crap.’ She spun in her chair to face him. ‘You’ve been hiding.’

‘Don’t.’ His voice held a warning.

‘Don’t what?’ She stood, forcing him to step back or stay too close. ‘Don’t notice how you hardly look at me? Don’t remember what you said at the party?’

‘I was drunk.’

‘Liar.’ She advanced on him, and a zing of satisfaction zipped through her as he retreated. ‘You were in control. You’re always in control. So much so that it’s annoying. Do you ever stop holding the reins so tight?’

His back bumped into a bookshelf. ‘Rowan.’

‘Say my name again.’ She moved into his space. ‘Say it like you mean it.’

His hands balled at his sides. ‘I can’t be near you like that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I might do something I will regret!’ The words exploded from him like shrapnel.

‘Here’s another thing you don’t know about me…’ Reckless flames surged through her bloodstream. ‘I live for regrets.’

The colour of his eyes shifted from glacier to thundercloud, pupils expanding until only a thin ring remained.

‘Testing me like that is unwise, little writer.’

She splayed her fingers across his chest, cataloguing each beat beneath the cotton.

He grabbed her wrist and moved her hand away. ‘This isn’t part of our deal.’

‘Neither was that kiss. Or that boner against my arse.’

‘A mistake. Don’t worry. It won’t happen again.’

He strode from the library before she had a chance to reply, leaving her buzzing like she’d touched a dodgy wire.

‘Coward,’ she said to the books surrounding her.

But she wasn’t sure which of them she meant.

Max pushed into the study, his body thrumming with an energy that made his skin feel too tight. Rowan’s touch lingered on his chest. She was insufferable. Brazen. Impossible.

And brilliant.

Stunning.

No!

Max slammed the study door with enough force to rattle the ancestors in their frames. He strode to the window, jerking it open to let in a blast of Highland air.

It wasn’t her stubbornness – though that could drive a saint to drink – it was the way she made him feel exposed. Like she could see straight through to the parts of himself he had spent a lifetime hiding. Like she had slipped a hand inside his ribcage and rearranged something vital. No one else dared. Not his board, not his acquaintances. Rowan, though? She ploughed through his defences with a raised eyebrow, iron will, and a wicked tongue.

Jesus. The way she had looked at him. All challenge and fire and…

His mind betrayed him, dragging him down paths he had no business treading. Hadn’t he spent days fighting this? And yet, every minute, there she was.

Rowan, on this desk. Her wild red hair spilling over polished wood like a goddamn wildfire.

Rowan, on her knees. His hands pulling that hair, guiding her closer, closer. Until her lips hovered against his zipper, warm breath teasing the promise of ruin.

Rowan, riding him. Right here, in his father’s leather chair, her nails biting into his shoulders.

His chest heaved with the effort of suppressing the groan building in his throat, and his palms left prints on the windowpane as he leaned against the cool glass.

Max turned away, yanked at his tie, and tossed it onto the desk. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, catching dust motes that danced like sparks.

The Johnson portfolio waited on his laptop, demanding attention. Three hundred jobs on the line. The numbers were clear, the subsidiary was bleeding money. Cutting it loose was the only logical choice. He opened the file, forcing himself to concentrate on cold, hard data instead of the way Rowan’s vest had ridden up, revealing a strip of skin that begged to be…

‘For Christ’s sake.’ He ran a hand down his face.

Usually, decisions like this came easily. Remove emotion, analyse data, execute. All for maximum profit. But now his mind kept circling back to the human cost. Three hundred families. Three hundred lives upended because some numbers didn’t align.

When had he started caring about that?

You know when.

His phone rang and Blackwood’s name flashed on the screen.

‘What is it?’ Max bit out, nonetheless grateful for the distraction.

‘Bad time?’

‘Every time you call is a bad time. What do you want?’

‘Thought you would like to know what our investigator found about your charmingly authentic bride.’

Max’s grip turned to iron around the phone. ‘Investigating my wife? How spectacularly stupid of you.’

‘The trust has concerns—’

‘The trust can get fucked.’

‘Language, Maxwell.’ Blackwood tsked. ‘What would your father say?’

‘He’s dead. Get to the point.’

‘Very well.’ The shuffle of papers filled the pause. ‘Your wife worked at a rather unsavoury establishment in Glasgow. The Last Drop. Ring any bells?’

Max pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘And?’

‘Not the sort of place a Lady Drummond should have connections to, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Is there a point to this character assassination?’

‘She was arrested.’

‘Fascinating.’ Max’s tone could have extinguished a bonfire. That piece of information caught him off guard, yes. He should have done a background check. But he would rather eat glass than let it show. ‘Do tell.’

‘Involved in a knife fight,’ Blackwood said. ‘It seems that she disarmed the attacker herself. Paints a rather vivid picture, doesn’t it?’

What the…

A knife fight. A bracing sting ran through him. Then a startled laugh escaped Max. Of course she had. Of course, his fierce, impossible wife had waded into a knife fight. The mental image was so perfectly, absurdly Rowan that something in his chest loosened.

‘I fail to see the humour,’ Blackwood said.

‘No, you wouldn’t see it. Tell me, what did you expect this revelation to accomplish?’

‘Surely you see that this sort of background—’

‘…makes her even more remarkable? A woman who would risk her safety to protect others? Who has survived things? Did you honestly believe this would shock me?’

Blackwood paused, weighing how far he could push. ‘The timing is unfortunate, of course. But you can’t deny she’s drawn attention. Questions. Certain trustees felt it prudent to ensure the marriage aligns with our standards.’ His voice oozed self-satisfaction. ‘The trust wouldn’t want any ugly surprises.’

‘The trust,’ Max said, ‘can review my extensive legal team. The marriage requirements said nothing about social status or background or arrests or reputation. You’re grasping at straws, and you know it.’

‘Maxwell, listen. I—’

‘No, you listen.’ Max’s voice went deadly quiet. ‘You will cease this investigation. You will destroy whatever sad little file you’ve compiled. And you will never, ever attempt to use my wife’s past against her. Because if you do, I will bury you so deep in litigation that your great-grandchildren will be paying crippling legal fees. Are we clear?’

‘You can’t—’

‘Watch me.’ Max smiled into the phone. ‘And Richard? The next time you want to play detective, remember this: I chose her. I want her. She’s precisely who and what I need. So back the fuck off.’

Max ended the call and tossed the phone onto the desk. Energy surged through his veins, making it impossible to sit still. He prowled the study’s perimeter, thoughts racing. The trustees were circling like vultures, waiting to strip him of everything. And now Blackwood wanted to weaponise Rowan’s past, to rip apart the only good thing he hadn’t planned for.

The Last Drop. He knew the place by reputation. A neon-lit haven for Glasgow’s cheap party scene on Sauchiehall Street. Mostly students. And Rowan had worked there. The image landed in his mind like a body shot: Rowan, younger but just as fierce and fuelled by rightfulness, refusing to back down from a blade. His fingers dug into his palms at the thought of her in danger.

But she had handled it, hadn’t she? Like she handled everything, with wit and that remarkable fearlessness that left him both awed and unnerved.

Well, and she knew jiu-jitsu.

He laughed.

The Johnson portfolio sat in front of him. He stared at the numbers. There had to be another solution. Something less destructive. Less cold.

Max’s phone pinged again. Probably Blackwood with more threats. Let him try. The thought of anyone using Rowan’s past against her made his blood run hot. The idea of someone tearing her down felt intolerable. He would never let anyone make her feel like less than the extraordinary woman she was.

She was his wife.

And God help anyone who tried to hurt her.

That truth should have sent him running. Instead, it pulled him in. Even the study felt different somehow, less oppressive. As if Rowan’s presence in his life had begun to chase away old ghosts.

‘Quite the woman you’ve married,’ his brother’s voice seemed to whisper from the corners.

Yes, Max thought. Quite the woman.

He closed the Johnson file without signing. Tomorrow, he would find another way. A better way. One that wouldn’t make Rowan look at him with disgust and disappointment.

Because somehow, without quite knowing how or why, that was becoming the one thing Maxwell Drummond couldn’t handle.