Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

D unmarach’s small music room held shadows like secrets. Max’s great-grandmother’s Bosendorfer grand piano dominated the space. Its ebony surface reflected the light. The instrument, worth more than most London flats, now sat unused.

Vintage jazz records filled the cabinet beside the modern turntable, his father’s concession to the twenty-first century. Max could almost hear the scratch of a needle on vinyl, John Coltrane’s smooth sound drifting through summer evenings. Jazz was the one thing Murdoch and Max Drummond had ever had in common. It was one of the few memories untainted by distance or failed expectation or unspeakable grief.

Rowan had scattered candles across various surfaces. He watched her light the last one, fascinated by how the flame teased out the burnished bronze in her hair. ‘Care to share what you’re trying to achieve?’

‘Creating ambiance. Unless you’d prefer to sulk in darkness?’

‘We have electricity. And I don’t sulk.’

‘Sure, and I don’t swear.’ The candlelight melted into the room’s corners, pushing back the shadows. ‘Now, where’s that fancy booze collection I’ve heard so much about?’

He pointed at a cabinet. ‘Third shelf. But—’

‘Nope.’ She cut him off. ‘No buts. Tonight we’re drinking the good stuff. Talking. Like a normal couple.’

‘We are not a normal couple.’

‘Ha! But you admit we are a couple.’ She turned, brandishing two glasses. ‘Scotch? That’s a rhetorical question, obviously.’

‘You don’t like whisky. Or so I thought.’

The truth was he didn’t know that much about her. Shame wedged itself under his skin like grit after a fall. He had done more recon on business rivals than on his own wife.

‘No, I don’t.’ She poured two fingers into each glass. ‘But tonight’s about you and pure honesty.’ She handed him the drink.

‘Is that what we’re calling it?’

‘Better than “emotional bloodletting while surrounded by dead people’s furniture”.’ She sat down on the piano bench, patting the space beside her. ‘You’re going to tell me about Martin while we drink.’

‘I don’t—’

‘What? Share? Feel? Let anyone see past that snazzy suit? Too late for that, I’m afraid. The trauma bottle is open; now we need to empty it.’ Something warmer crept into her voice. ‘What I mean is… You don’t have to carry all of this alone. Just start somewhere.’

‘You’re not going to let this go, are you?’

‘Not a chance. I’m your wife. Let me carry some of your weight.’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘See, you keep saying that. But nothing ever is. I’m stubborn and surprisingly strong and I’m not going anywhere. At least for another 348 days.’

Max ran a finger along the piano’s edge, muscle memory drawing him to the bench.

‘You play?’ She angled her head, and the faint glow of the candlelight danced in her eyes.

‘Used to.’ He took his seat on the bench and the wood creaked. ‘Before.’

‘Play something for me?’ She nudged his shoulder. The request held no pressure.

He stretched his fingers, remembering endless hours of practice at his mother’s insistence. The discipline of scales, the mathematics of rhythm. Repetitive. Safe. Predictable.

‘Hey. We can just sit.’

‘No.’ His fingers rested on the keys. The ivory felt both familiar and foreign. ‘Martin was terrible at it. Could barely manage Chopsticks . But God, he could charm anyone with his voice. You should have heard him sing The Rowan Tree .’

‘Och, that bloody weepy tune. You know how many times I got serenaded with it at school?’

‘He used to throw a hand over his heart and belt it out like he was leading the clan into battle, like carrying on the name was some grand, noble calling.’ Max huffed. ‘I never knew if a part of him bought into it or if he just liked the applause.’

She exhaled a quiet laugh. ‘Sounds like a character.’

‘That he was.’ Max’s chest locked up. ‘Everything came easily to him. Sports, business, people, parties. Life, I guess.’

Light from the candles glanced off the crystal, painting the keys in amber.

She took a small sip. ‘Must have been exhausting.’

Her thigh touched his on the narrow bench and radiated warmth through his trousers. She was finding ways in, quiet and persistent as roots breaking pavement.

‘I suppose that’s why he had to let off steam sometimes.’ Max spread his fingers over the keys, muscle memory taking over. The opening notes of Someone To Watch Over Me filled the room, and the piano’s resonance travelled up through the pedals into his feet.

She leaned closer and hummed along, slightly off-key. Each small movement, the brush of her knee or the touch of her shoulder, sent his pulse hammering in places he’d rather not acknowledge.

‘Tell me something good.’ She leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘A happy Martin memory.’

‘He…taught me to swim, down there in the Loch. It was freezing, but fun.’ A good memory. Rare. Enough of that for one night. ‘Okay, your turn. Tell me about your family.’

Rowan stared into her glass as if debating whether to speak. Then, in a low voice, she said, ‘My gran’s in cognitive decline. Dementia. I might have mentioned that. She’s forgetting and confusing more and more things and people. Sometimes, she asks where my mum is, even when she’s sitting right there. And soon…’ She took another swig. ‘Soon she won’t know me at all, and I don’t know if my heart’s going to survive that.’

Max’s fingers halted on the keys. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Aye, well.’ She shrugged, but he saw the shimmer in her eyes. ‘At least I had her growing up. After my dad fucked off when I was two, my gran raised me.’

Even after the accident, Max had had wealth, education, opportunities. While Rowan…

‘Why?’, he asked.

‘I don’t know. He just left and I don’t remember him. Mum worked hard to keep us fed. So my gran took care of me while my mum was working. Taught me to read, to cook, to swear. Proper wee Weegie granny.’ Her smile wobbled. ‘And now she’s slipping away, bit by bit.’

‘That’s tough.’

‘Believe it or not, Maxwell Drummond, loss, pain, illness, and trauma don’t give a toss about money and titles. We all have to dig through our own shit. Some just have bigger shovels. And yes, that does make a difference.’

He couldn’t help but grin. ‘Martin would have liked you. He always said I needed someone who wouldn’t put up with my stoical nonsense.’

‘Your brother was an intelligent man.’ She set her glass down and turned to face him. ‘You’re still wound too tight. Let me help you with that.’

The piano bench creaked again as she inched closer. The air snagged in his chest as she reached for his tie.

‘What are you doing?’, he asked.

‘Helping you breathe.’ The silk whispered through her fingers as she loosened the knot. ‘When was the last time you relaxed?’

The first button surrendered to her touch and his pulse thudded against the confines of his shirt.

‘Come on, Drummond. Let some oxygen in.’

Heat and cold warred beneath his skin as she worked another button free.

‘Last one.’ Her knuckles brushed the ridge of his shoulder. ‘There. Human again.’

The candlelight painted shadows in the hollow of her throat. Max fought the urge to trace them with his tongue.

She didn’t have to be here. Not like this. Not lingering past what their deal required. She should have walked away from his ghosts, his baggage, all the jagged edges he didn’t know how to smooth out. But she was still here. Not just tolerating him but enjoying his company. Not his money or power or…

‘Better?’

The world narrowed to the heat of her fingertips.

‘Rowan…’ His heartbeat roared in his ears.

Her touch sank through the thin cotton of his shirt, straight to the bone, striking a charge through him he had never felt before. That scent of hers cut off rational thought for good.

‘I need—’ The words lodged somewhere between his heart and his mouth.

‘What do you need?’ Her voice was a low murmur.

‘…to kiss you.’ The confession tore from his chest. ‘Rowan, I need to kiss you.’

The soft catch in her breath sent a searing bolt of want through him.

‘Then why don’t you?’

Jesus.

‘I told you I wouldn’t touch you if you don’t want me to. Do you want me to touch you, Rowan?’

‘Yes. God, yes.’

She was his wife.

His wife.

His.

And she wanted him. All of him. Even the sides of him he had never shown anyone.

He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting her face to his. ‘Last chance to run.’

‘Not going anywhere.’ She wet her lips.

It shouldn’t have sent blood rushing south like a tidal wave, but here he was, iron-hard against his zipper, one second away from losing the last shred of control. The restraint that had ruled his every move, the carefully calibrated distance he had kept from her, from this – obliterated. None of it mattered anymore. Not when she looked at him like that. Not when she was so sweet. So close. So willing.

‘Good. Because I’m going to kiss my wife now. And then I’m going to fuck her until she knows she belongs to me.’

Her pupils went wide, green gone molten. There it was. That blush. That blush that made him want to ruin her.

‘Promises, promises.’ But the quiver in her voice betrayed her.

That was it. That was all he needed.

Max surged forward, sealing his mouth over hers, claiming. Devouring. Her breath shuddered into him, and he drank it up. His fingers tousled her hair, angling her head, forcing the kiss deeper, wilder. Because that was what she did to him.

She unleashed his wild side.

Her hot little tongue was so eager to meet his, it was unbearable. He slid his hand down to the slim column of her neck, gripping it just enough to keep her where he wanted her. A sound caught in her throat, part moan, part challenge, and it shot straight to his cock. She nipped his bottom lip, the sting making him growl against her mouth.

He pulled back. ‘Careful. I can only hold back for so long.’

It had been ages since he last had sex, but it had never felt like this. Nothing had ever felt like this. She was the one who made him feel things. She was the one who got under his skin.

She was the one…

‘Then don’t hold back,’ she said. ‘Let go. You know I can take it.’

Max snapped. One second, he was on the bench. The next, she lay on the grand piano, lifted with the force of his need, sheet music scattering like fallen leaves. He had to make her feel the same powerful rush he felt.

‘I need to…make you mine. I need to—’

‘And I…need to see you try.’ Her chest heaved in shallow, uneven breaths.

‘You want to see what happens when I let go?’ Max rolled his hips against her core and let her feel how desperate he was for her. She didn’t shy away. No, she pushed back.

Of course she did.

Her lips teased the corner of his mouth. ‘Hell yeah.’

That single phrase undid him.

He grabbed the fabric of her vest and pulled it up. The sight of her perched on the piano… This woman called to every dark, buried part of him.

She was a drug. Clouded his judgement and made him crave the taste of her skin. Her lips. Her everything.

But he refused to rush.

She deserved more. He would give her everything she didn’t know she needed. He would savour her. Every sound she made, every move. He would make her feel the same roaring intensity he was feeling. And by the end of the night, he would have her exactly where he wanted her.

Where he had wanted her the moment he had laid eyes on her.

In his bed.

Willing. Surrendering. Begging for more.

Completely his.