Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

R owan found Max at the distillery. He stood by the ageing barrels, silhouetted against the rain-streaked warehouse windows, long after everyone else was gone. The tumbler in his hand glowed in the low light. The hoppy scent of malted barley hung thick in the air.

‘Your family bought this place with blood money.’ The words slipped out before she could soften them.

His shoulders stiffened. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Dugald Drummond. Slave trade investments. Caribbean plantations.’ She stepped closer, heart thundering. ‘That’s how he bought Dunmarach. With compensation money from losing his human…property.’

‘So you’ve been busy.’ His words hit with the bite of an ice bath.

‘That’s all you have to say?’

‘What would you like me to say? That my ancestors were bastards? They were. Welcome to the British upper class.’

‘And that doesn’t bother you?’

His spine went rigid, and Rowan thought he might deny it.

Instead, he huffed out a harsh laugh. ‘Of course it bothers me. But what do you want me to do? Rewrite history? Undo centuries of greed and cruelty? I wasn’t there, and I can’t change the past.’

‘No, but you can acknowledge it. Make amends.’

‘By doing what? Writing a cheque? Selling the estate? Would that satisfy your moral outrage?’

She advanced on him. ‘Don’t you dare make this about me and my values!’

He set his glass down on a barrel. ‘What else did you find to feel upset about?’

The pain in his voice made her flinch. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Didn’t mean what?’ Max’s voice cut like frost. ‘To pry into things that don’t concern you? To use my family’s history for your exposé?’

‘That’s not—’ Her chest seized up like it was trying to crush her heart. ‘I’m trying to understand.’

‘Understand what?’

‘You!’ The word shot out of her chest. ‘This place. Why you’re so determined to keep Dunmarach when it makes you miserable.’

‘You know nothing about what makes me miserable.’

‘Because you won’t bloody tell me!’ She gestured at the rows of barrels lining the dimly lit space. ‘You act like this is some sacred duty, but I’ve never seen you enjoy a single moment here. So why? Why tie yourself to a legacy built on suffering – personal and otherwise?’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Then explain it to me!’ She moved closer and refused to let him retreat behind that wall of icy restraint. ‘Help me understand why you’re willing to marry a stranger but won’t talk about what matters.’

His laugh was bitter. ‘And what matters to you, Rowan? Getting your story? Solving the mystery of the brooding laird?’

‘Fuck you.’ A sting pricked behind her eyes. ‘You think that’s all this is?’

‘Isn’t it?’ He loomed closer, using every inch of his height to make his point land harder. ‘The journalist who married for access and money? Don’t pretend you’re here for any other reason.’

The words hit like slaps. ‘Right, because you’re such an expert on my motivations. At least I’m honest about what I want and need, Max.’

‘Are you?’ His smile was almost cruel. ‘Then tell me, little writer. What do you want?’

‘I want…’, the truth caught in her throat, ‘…you to trust me. I want you to let me in. I want… I want you to stop being such a stupid coward.’

His eyes turned arctic. ‘Watch your mouth.’

‘Or you’ll shut me out harder? Push me away more effectively? Newsflash, you absolute weapon – I’m your wife. I’m not going anywhere.’

‘This marriage is purely business.’ But something shifted behind his mask.

‘Sorry, but no. It isn’t. Not anymore. You’re reaching out, but you’re terrified of letting anyone close. Of losing control for even a second. But guess what? I’m already here. I already know about Martin—’

The crystal tumbler hit the floor, shattering on the stone tiles. Rowan jumped, heart thundering.

‘Get out.’ Max’s voice was lethal.

‘No.’

‘Get. Out.’

‘Make me.’ She spread her arms wide. ‘Go on. Show me how good you are at pushing people away. But I won’t make it easy.’

He closed the gap between them, backing her against a barrel of ageing whisky. ‘You want to know why I keep this place?’ His breath fanned hot against her face. ‘Why I tie myself to duty? Because it’s all I have fucking left!’

‘Max—’

‘What do you want from me? A confession? Fine. I killed my brother.’ The words fell between them like ash after a fire. ‘I killed him. All of this should have been his, and keeping this godforsaken castle and distillery is the only way I can make any of it right. So don’t stand there with your righteous judgement and tell me what I should do or feel about my legacy.’

She reached for him, but he jerked away. ‘You didn’t kill anyone. It was an accident.’

‘Was it?’ His laugh was hollow. ‘I lost control of that car, and he died. Cause and effect.’ His chest met hers as he crowded closer, the wood of the barrel digging into her back. His body was a wall of tension that left no space to breathe.

‘You wanted the truth, and that’s it. I woke up in hospital to learn I had killed my best friend, my brother. That everything – absolutely everything – was my fault.’

The raw hurt in his voice cut through her anger and left only the weight of his words. He wasn’t carrying guilt, he was drowning in it. She reached for his cheek again, but he stiffened and leaned away.

‘Don’t.’ The word scraped out of him. ‘Just…don’t.’

‘You were seventeen.’

‘Old enough to know better.’ He pushed away from the wall, from her. ‘Old enough to live with the consequences.’

‘Young enough to make a mistake.’ She caught his wrist. ‘A horrible, tragic mistake.’

‘Let go.’

‘No.’ She strengthened her grip. ‘You’ve been carrying this alone for too long.’

‘Rowan.’

‘I’m not afraid of your guilt.’ Softly, she put her palm to his chest, feeling his heart race. ‘Or your pain. Or your past. Do you want to spend your whole life punishing yourself? Pushing away anyone who might care?’

‘I don’t need your pity.’

‘Good, because I don’t pity you. I’m furious with you. For keeping this to yourself. For not letting me…’

Help you. Hold you.

The fight seemed to drain from him all at once. He slid down the wall and sank onto the distillery floor. Rowan followed, settling beside him.

‘Martin was drunk.’ The last syllable came out fractured. ‘So bloody drunk he couldn’t even stand.’

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘I want to hear it. I’m here.’

Max stared at his hands. ‘He had nicked Papa’s Porsche. Wanted to impress some girls at Tobias Featherstone’s party. I told him it was mental. That car… They call it the Widowmaker for a reason.’ He swallowed. ‘But Martin laughed. Said I needed to loosen up and drove us there in two hours instead of three.’

Rowan found his hand and threaded her fingers through his. This time, he didn’t pull away.

‘We couldn’t stay the night. Martin had this thing early the next morning, something about shadowing our father at the distillery. First proper step toward taking over, whether he wanted to or not. Didn’t matter that he was heading back to uni. He knew how his story would end, it was already written. And he was okay with it. But he said he needed to feel a bit of freedom.’

Max’s hand clasped hers tighter like he was testing if she’d hold on even if it hurt. ‘The party was a riot. I spent most of it watching Martin get plastered. He wouldn’t listen to me. When it was time to leave…’ He closed his eyes. ‘Jesus, I had to carry him. Yes, Martin could be a reckless idiot, but he was also the one who could make me laugh even when I didn’t want to. The one who believed in me when no one else did. And we had to get home. So…’

‘So you drove,’ she said softly.

‘What choice did I have?’ The words held thirteen years of agony. ‘And that idiot wouldn’t wear a seatbelt. Said it wrinkled his jacket. Kept fiddling with the radio, telling me to go faster.’ He ran his free hand through his hair. ‘I was terrified. The rain, the dark, the single-track road. And then that bloody car…’

‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘You weren’t there.’ Max’s glassy eyes fixed somewhere beyond the copper stills, staring into the past. ‘One moment we were fine. The next… I hit the gas too hard coming out of a corner. The back end…went. I tried to correct, but…’

He shuddered. Rowan shifted closer, pressing her shoulder against his.

‘The tree came out of nowhere. Passenger side. I remember screaming his name, but… When I woke up in hospital, my parents couldn’t even look at me.’ His voice faded to a near-whisper. ‘My father was just staring. Like he couldn’t believe I was the one who survived.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing.’ His fingers flexed against hers.

‘What? Why?’

‘No idea. Grief turned them into strangers. Or maybe it revealed who they had always been. People who valued the family name more than the sons who bore it. Martin was perfect in their eyes. I was the difficult one. Too quiet. Too serious. Not enough of a “people person” to run the business, the estate. Not the heir, just the spare.’

Her stomach dropped. ‘ Those were his words?’

‘No, he was more subtle. “Perhaps Cambridge would suit you better than Oxford, Maxwell.” When I finally got out, they sent me straight to university, to get rid of me.’

‘You let them blame you. You didn’t tell them he was drunk.’ Understanding spread like ink in water. ‘To protect Martin’s memory. Shit, Max. That’s… God.’

‘I couldn’t… He was their favourite. The ideal son. The heir. I couldn’t let them know he had been irresponsible and rash. Stupid. Drunk.’

A sting shot through her. ‘So you carried it alone.’

‘Seemed fitting.’ His laugh was jagged. ‘I lived. He died. The least I could do was preserve who he was to them.’

‘Listen to me.’ She shifted until she faced him and caught both of his hands in hers. ‘ Martin took that Porsche without permission. Martin got steamin’. Martin refused to wear his seatbelt.’ She gently tapped his chest with each point, punctuating the words. ‘ You were trying to get your pissed brother home in a dangerous car. In the rain. On Highland roads.’ The edge in her tone eased. ‘The only thing you’re guilty of is trying to be a good, loyal brother.’

His shoulders slumped forward. ‘I tried to never lose control again.’

‘Oh, love.’ She let go of one of his hands and found the nape of his neck, threading through the short hairs there. ‘It’s okay.’

‘I don’t know how to stop being careful. Being controlled. I don’t know if I can survive without it.’

‘We’ll figure it out.’ She rubbed slow circles on his back. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said again and again. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

They sat tangled up together on the floor in his family’s distillery, surrounded by shadows. He didn’t pull away, he didn’t let go. And neither did she.

‘I haven’t touched a steering wheel since that night. I had just got my full license a few weeks before the accident. Now…’ He exhaled, the sound catching like fabric on thorns. ‘That’s why I hired Oliver when the London job started paying proper money. Everyone assumed it was some posh git thing, the finance boy too important to drive himself.’ A wry pull played at the corner of his mouth. ‘Easier to let them think that than to admit I still wake up some nights choking on blood and petrol.’

The vulnerability in his voice felt like someone had shoved a fist under her ribs. She imagined seventeen-year-old Max, trapped in a cage of crumpled metal, while his brother’s life bled out beside him.

‘You lost control once, and it cost you everything. So now you micromanage every detail, every interaction, trying to prevent another catastrophe.’

‘Amateur psychology?’

‘Common sense. And maybe a bit of projection. Growing up without my dad, I went the opposite way. Figured if I had no expectations, nothing could hurt me.’ Her lips quirked. ‘Didn’t work so well.’

Max was quiet for a beat. He lifted his hand and let his knuckles graze her cheek. ‘That must have been lonely and tough. You, your mother, and your grandmother deserved better.’

Her swallow stuck halfway. ‘Agreed. But that’s a story for another day. One trauma at a time.’

‘I’ve never told my story to anyone,’ he murmured. ‘Not the whole thing.’

She scooted closer on her knees. ‘Thank you for sharing it with me.’

His arms came around her, pulling her in, and something shifted between them.

Sometimes, she thought, healing starts with being held.

Eventually, she pulled back and stood, joints popping after too long on the cold floor. While they’d talked, the distillery’s shadows had darkened. Barrels loomed heavy in the dim light, and the copper stills threw back a dull gleam like they were waiting for something.

Dwelling on it too much at once would only drown him. Max needed a lifeline, something to remind him that life didn’t have to be all ghosts and guilt.

And Rowan was determined to give it to him.

She held out her hand. ‘Up you get, Drummond.’

‘What now?’ he asked, but he took it.

‘We’re spending this evening together, not alone.’ She hauled him up. ‘I am your wife. Looking after you when you’re being miserable is literally in the contract.’

‘Is it?’ Some of the shadows lifted from his eyes.

‘Page twenty-three, subsection B,’ she said, already moving towards the door.

His steps faltered as she tugged him along. ‘I’m not sure—’

‘Come on, Max. Let’s go back and see where the night takes us. We’re young, we’re broken beyond repair, and we’re alone in a castle. Let’s live a little.’

His lips hinted at something that wasn’t a smile but held the promise of one. ‘And where do you suggest we start?’

‘Fancy a dram with your wife?’

For a second, she thought he’d refuse.

‘Lead the way, little writer.’ His voice held a warm note she’d never heard before.

As she pulled him from the distillery back up to the castle, neither mentioned how their fingers remained intertwined. Some truths, after all, were better left unspoken.

For now.