Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

T he first rays of dawn crept through the bedroom window, painting silver stripes across Max’s torso. Rowan blinked away the remnants of sleep. A well-earned ache throbbed between her thighs – proof of activities that would’ve rattled even Queen Victoria’s corset.

And she’d been a right horn-dog for Albert, that was common knowledge.

Everything had changed last night. Their marriage was no longer just a contract.

Or maybe a contract with benefits?

The bed stretched around them like an ocean of Egyptian cotton, yet somehow they’d gravitated to its centre, sharing the same patch of warmth.

Max lay on his back, one arm flung above his head, the other resting across his stomach. The sheet had slipped to his waist, revealing the lean planes of his chest. His torso rose and fell in the steady rhythm of deep sleep.

No snoring. Thank God.

‘Oh, Drummond,’ she whispered. ‘You absolute work of art.’

Sleep softened the angles of his face and smoothed the furrow between his brows. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, making him look younger. His dark lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and his mouth – that clever, talented mouth – had lost its stern set. A tiny scar marked his bottom lip, almost invisible unless you knew where to look. Which she now did.

Her fingers itched to trace the strong cut of his jaw, dusted with one-day stubble, to follow the path her lips had taken hours before. But she didn’t want to wake him up.

The thing was, he looked vulnerable. Like someone had stripped away his armour of expensive suits, leaving just…Max. A man who carried the weight of generations. Who’d lost his brother too young and learned to guard his heart behind walls of duty and discipline.

Life had a way of leaving its marks, even on those born with silver spoons in their mouths. Money couldn’t shield you from loss or loneliness. It couldn’t fill the empty spaces where love should be.

Quite the pair we make, eh? Both of us pretending we don’t need anyone.

But… She needed him now, didn’t she? Not his money. This. The way he saw through her sass to the girl underneath. How he matched her spark with his own, didn’t try to dim her light.

Aye, she was falling for Maxwell Drummond. The man who’d basically bought her – and now looked at her like she was a puzzle he was dying to solve.

You’re such a romantic bampot, Rowan.

She half-arsed a list of all the reasons this was a terrible idea. He was a rigid, emotionally closed-off posh git. She was chaotic, independent, and allergic to rules. They were from different planets. No, dimensions.

Except…

Beneath his refinement and her rebellion, they burned with the same flame, drawn from the same fire. The same drive to prove themselves. The same loyalty to family. The same resistance to bend to anyone’s will. Ever.

Perhaps that was the problem. Two flames that close together could consume everything in their path – or each other.

His breathing shifted, and she froze. But he only turned, seeking her. Still sleeping, he slid his arm across the sheets until he found her hip. His instinctive touch sent a hum through her, and Rowan let his breathing lull her. She’d face reality later. Their deal, their boundaries, their limited time.

For now, she’d allow herself this slice of peace. Of belonging.

Even if it was based on a contract.

She drifted off with a small smile, her body aligned with his. As if the restless part of her soul had found its harbour. Her last conscious thought was that she’d never slept better than she did next to Max.

The rich aroma of fresh coffee teased Rowan from sleep, pulling her from a dream about swimming in Scotch.

She blinked against the light. Max sat on the edge of the bed, two steaming mugs in his hands, wearing nothing but tight black boxers that left very little to the imagination.

Not that she needed to imagine anything. Not since last night.

‘Morning.’ His hair stuck up at odd angles, soft and rumpled.

He looked…cute?

Yes, cute. Really, really cute. He wasn’t supposed to look this relatable. Now, he was just a man with messy hair and drowsy eyes.

‘You brought me coffee?’ The simple gesture loosened something in Rowan’s chest. Her gran’s voice echoed in her memory: ‘Yer grandda never missed a mornin’.’

She had to blink a tear away.

Max handed her a mug. ‘Apparently, marriage comes with certain obligations.’

‘Who are you, and what have you done with my uptight husband?’

‘Uptight?’ He took a sip from his coffee. ‘That’s not what you were saying last night. It sounded more like “Thank you for making me come a million times, husband”.’

‘Well, erm… It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.’ She sat up and clutched the sheet to her chest. ‘Wait. Were you sitting here, watching me sleep like some creepy vampire?’

‘Yes.’ The honesty in his voice caught her off guard. ‘And you talk in your sleep.’

‘I do not!’

‘Something about swimming in Scotch?’

‘Oh God. What else did I say?’

‘Nothing coherent. Though there was an interesting bit about my—’

‘If you finish that sentence, I’m divorcing you this instant.’

His rare laugh was different this morning, lighter. It did funny things to her insides. And if that wasn’t enough, the coffee was perfect. Strong and sweet, exactly how she liked it.

‘I see you’ve been paying attention to my coffee tastes.’

‘I pay attention to the things that matter.’ His gaze skated over the small curve of her shoulder.

She blew across her mug. ‘Aww. You’re almost human in the morning.’

‘Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.’

‘Your secret is safe with me. All your secrets are.’

‘Speaking of my reputation: I have a call with London soon.’ Letting out a grunt, he turned and bent to grab his socks from the floor.

Rowan’s playful mood evaporated.

Silvery scars crisscrossed his back like a map. Pale, raised lines telling a story of metal and glass and pain.

She reached out and hesitated, her hand hovering over his back. This wasn’t her place. Or was it? These scars weren’t just physical; they were part of the fortress he’d built. She wanted to scale that wall, to touch the part of him he hid from the world. Her fingers moved before her brain caught up, tracing the largest scar with a feather-light touch.

Max went very still.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said and withdrew her hand. ‘I shouldn’t—’

‘No.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘It’s fine.’

‘The accident?’

‘Yes. My spine was… I’m lucky I can still walk.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Not anymore.’ His voice was tight. ‘Not physically.’

‘They’re part of your story, Max. They’re beautiful.’

He turned, his eyes so dark it made her pulse skip. ‘Beautiful?’

‘I mean…they suit you. They make you more…you.’ She explored each scar with careful fingertips, his history written into his skin.

And she needed to be closer.

So she shifted, letting the sheet slip away as she wrapped her arms around him from behind, bare skin meeting his. Soft to solid, heat to heat. His muscles tensed as her breasts pushed against his back. She wasn’t trying to rub against him. She wasn’t not trying either. What she was trying to do was make him feel whole.

His breathing grew uneven. ‘Drink your coffee before it gets cold.’

But he didn’t move, and she didn’t point out that his own mug sat forgotten on the nightstand. The weight of the moment pressed down on her, so she did what she did best – lighten the mood before she did something daft.

Like cry.

‘Come here.’ She tugged his shoulder. ‘Your brooding is disrupting my morning caffeine ritual.’

He resisted for a beat, then let her pull him back against the pillows. ‘You’re impossible, woman.’

‘Mhm. Just the way you like it.’

‘How do you know what I like?’

She let her hand wander down his stomach until she found his hard arousal. ‘Because your dick is screaming for me so loudly, the whole village can hear it.’

He laughed as she climbed on top of him.

It was a wonderful sound.

Rowan straddled him, sinking her knees into the plush mattress. He was hard, and she was sore. But the hunger – God, the hunger for this man – only burned hotter.

She needed this.

He needed this.

He followed the length of her spine with his hand like he was learning her by touch alone. ‘You’re so soft.’

‘Is that your way of saying I’m not as firm as your ego?’

He let out a low chuckle. ‘Always ready to pounce, aren’t you?’

‘Mmm.’ She hummed, a non-committal sound that wasn’t yes but sure as hell wasn’t no.

Heat rolled off him as he moved lower down her back and palmed her ass. He followed the curve of her hip, then eased between her legs, teasing and testing, coaxing a shameless little moan from her.

Handy that she hadn’t even bothered with underwear.

She leaned in to kiss him. ‘I’m right here,’ she whispered. ‘I’m right here. I want to feel you.’

His groan was ragged like she’d dragged it from the depths of his chest. Then he pulled his briefs down.

Hot. Hard. Hers.

She reached between them, closed her fingers around him, and guided him where she needed him most.

‘I love that my wife takes what she wants.’ He let her find the angle, let her set the pace as she worked him inside.

‘Oh, that feels good… that feels good… ooh, that feels so fucking good…’

The stretch was still a challenge, a sweet burn that made her hiss through her teeth. She felt every unrelenting inch of him, and it still wasn’t enough.

‘Rowan. Oh, damn.’

The way he said her name when he was inside her? She never wanted to hear it from anyone else. His gaze held hers as she began to move. She felt beautiful. Powerful. Whole.

This thing between them was something else. Something she hadn’t signed up for. Something she couldn’t get enough of.

She leaned forward and braced her hands against his chest, her fingers tracing the hard planes of muscle. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth, scraped along his jaw, and kissed the spot between his neck and his shoulder that smelled the most like him.

He wrapped his arms around her and held her flush against him as he moved, each thrust a soul-shattering grind.

‘Oh my God, you’re so deep. Max… So deep. I can feel you everywhere.’

‘Yeah, you do.’ His breath singed her ear. ‘Your pussy is like you. So fucking brave. No one else could take me like this. No one else could handle me the way you do.’

Oh. Oh, holy fucking fuck.

Max’s hands came up again, cupping her tits in a firm grip. His fingers worked her to stiff points, sharp tugs sending heat raging between her legs.

‘Yes,’ she whimpered. ‘More.’

The gleam of his wedding ring caught in the morning light.

My husband.

Mine.

The sight sent a scorching thrill up her spine and made her body clench around him in an instinctive squeeze.

‘Say it,’ she breathed, voice breaking. ‘Say my name when you come.’

‘First, I’ll make you say mine.’

He drove hard and fast, and her body went taut. Then she was screaming his name, pleasure hitting in wild, rolling waves, drowning everything else.

Everything but him.

‘Max,’ she sobbed against his mouth. ‘Max, Max, Max—’

His grip on her hips hardened so much it hurt. His breath staggered, his entire body locking up. ‘Rowan…’ His voice was coarse, desperate. ‘Rowan. Rowan!’

He pulsed inside her, the hot rush of him spilling in powerful bursts.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Their bodies fused, their breath one.

This was real.

She’d entered this castle as Max’s wife in name only, but now? Now she was his in every way that mattered.

Max should have gotten ready for the call by now, it was almost nine. But he preferred tracing idle patterns on Rowan’s bare shoulder. Her head rested in the crook of his arm, red hair spilling across his chest like flames. Slipping back into bed after a shower? He had never done that. But she made him want to try new things.

‘Are you one of those pricks who owns a private jet?’ Her voice held that blend of sass and genuine curiosity that never failed to catch him off guard.

‘What?’ He huffed out a laugh. ‘Where did that come from?’

‘Well, you’re minted.’ She propped herself up on one elbow, a sly gleam lit her green eyes. ‘Super rich people have private jets, don’t they? Helicopters.’

His fingers found a soft patch of skin at the base of her throat. ‘Private jets are for wankers with more money than sense.’

‘Says the man who owns a literal castle.’

‘The castle owns itself. I merely pay the heating bills.’ He shifted to see her better. ‘Which are astronomical, by the way. Have you any idea how much it costs to heat stone walls in winter? Not to speak of the roof repairs.’

She patted his chest. ‘Must be tough, being a castle-owning millionaire.’

‘The distillery barely breaks even most years.’

‘But you won’t sell it.’

It wasn’t a question. Max’s hand stilled on her skin. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

The quiet acceptance in her voice loosened something in his chest. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘Try me.’

He stared at the ceiling, pulling up thoughts buried for thirteen years. ‘My father… He was different there. Almost happy sometimes, when he worked with the master distiller. Testing new blends, arguing about barrel selection.’ The words snagged, reluctant to come out. ‘It’s the only place I remember him laughing.’

She spread her palm over his heart. ‘And now it’s yours.’

‘For whatever that’s worth.’

‘It’s worth everything.’ She rose. ‘It’s your heritage, your family’s legacy. Your roots. Of course, you have to protect it.’

Her understanding struck him like a well-placed body shot, but in a weirdly good way. ‘Even if it’s not profitable?’

‘Some things matter more than profit.’ She smiled. ‘Though I bet admitting it physically pains you.’

‘Deeply.’ But his lips pulled at the corners.

‘Good thing you married a financially irresponsible writer then.’ Her ring flared in the sunlight as she gestured. ‘I can teach you the art of making terrible decisions, business and otherwise.’

Max took her hand and brought it close to examine the gold band on her ring finger. The one he put there. ‘About that.’

‘About what?’

‘This.’ He aligned their hands, wedding rings glinting. ‘Us. I don’t…’ He paused. ‘A year seemed reasonable at first. For the trust.’

‘And now?’ She interlaced her fingers with his, both rings touching.

‘Now I’m not sure about anything. Except that I enjoy having you here. In my bed, by my side.’

‘To my own surprise, I don’t hate being here. With you. Even if you don’t own a helicopter.’

He brought her closer, as close as he could, and hid his smile in her hair. ‘Stop fishing for luxury vessels, little writer.’

He kissed her, rolling them until she lay beneath him, laughing that bright, infectious laugh that shifted his entire world into focus and sent everything falling perfectly into place.

For the first time since Martin’s death, the weight on Max’s chest eased.

His mobile vibrated next to the pillow where Rowan dozed. The screen displayed Blackwood’s number. Max tensed, but he kept his voice neutral.

‘Richard.’

‘I have it.’ Blackwood’s smug tone carried through the speaker.

Max’s fingers stilled in Rowan’s hair. ‘Have what? Mad cow disease?’

‘The contract. Your little arrangement with Miss MacKay. Or Mrs Drummond, as she calls herself these days.’

Ice crystallised in Max’s veins. Rowan’s copy of the contract was in his safe, he had seen it there last night. His copy was with his law associates in London. Also in a safe.

So this was nonsense.

But doubt niggled. Had Blackwood somehow accessed his study? Maybe when he stayed at Dunmarach after the wedding, while Max and Rowan were out for dinner. Or during the birthday party?

If Martin were here, this wouldn’t even be a conversation. He would have laughed at Blackwood. But Martin wasn’t here, and the burden of potential failure fell on Max.

No reason to show his cards, though.

‘You can’t have what doesn’t exist. There is no contract beyond our prenuptial agreement.’ Max kept his tone bored, dismissive. ‘Which you drafted, old chap.’

‘Come now, Maxwell. We both know better.’ A faint shuffle of pages. ‘Shall I read the relevant sections? The part about monthly payments?’

Rowan stirred against him. Max gathered her in, tucking her against his side.

‘You’re talking rubbish.’

‘Am I?’ Blackwood’s laugh was biting. ‘The trust won’t look kindly on fraud, Maxwell. Especially from a London city boy who has no connection to his lega—’

‘Thin ice.’ Max’s tone fell to a dangerous whisper.

‘You’ll threaten me again? Punch me? I’m not some hedge fund manager or little gangster you can intimidate with your antics. I knew your father, Maxwell. You’re not even half the man he was.’ More rustling. ‘Even a non-disclosure agreement. Tell me, how much did it cost to buy a council estate wife? Was she a bargain?’

How did that piece of shit…?

‘Drop the act.’ Max set his teeth against the anger rising in him. ‘You want to sell the distillery to cash in. A percentage of the sale profits and consulting fees from restructuring the estate, isn’t it? Richard, you’re a transparent, pathetic little man.’

‘And you’re finished. The board meets for the quarterly review next month. I wonder how they’ll react when they learn Maxwell Drummond arranged a sham marriage with a wh—’

‘I told you before, and I’m telling you again, if you finish that word, I will end you.’ The warning cut through the air like a blade.

Rowan opened her eyes. Concern creased her brow.

‘We both know what this is, Maxwell. A losing hand played by a spoiled boy who would rather hire someone than face reality.’ Blackwood’s tone dripped acid. ‘The distillery is dying. It’s time to let go and sell.’

‘Never.’

‘Then you leave me no choice but to inform the other trustees about your fraudulent marriage. The trust will take over and sell. I’ll see you at the quarterly review meeting in four weeks. Bring your so-called wife. It should be entertaining.’

The line went dead.

Max’s pulse rushed hot through his skull. Blackwood was bluffing. Had to be. As a lawyer, he knew enough about high-stakes financial agreements to make semi-educated guesses. But that sliver of doubt…

There was another paper trail, of course. The transfers to Rowan’s account. He should have covered his tracks better, been more thorough…

‘What’s wrong?’, she asked.

‘Nothing.’ He pushed off the bed, spine rigid.

‘Max, don’t be a dick. Let me help.’

Her offer landed like a punch to the sternum. He couldn’t. Involving her would only make things worse. For her, for them. He had to protect their arrangement, protect his wife.

‘I have to handle something.’ He pulled on his trousers, movements clipped and precise. ‘An urgent business matter.’

She sat up. ‘That was Blackwood, wasn’t it? I heard—’

‘Leave it.’ The words came out harsher than intended.

Hurt flashed across her face before she masked it. He hated it.

‘Of course. Wouldn’t want to muddy the waters of your pristine, mysterious business dealings.’

Max’s hands stilled on his shirt buttons. He burned to tell her everything – about Blackwood’s threats, the board meeting, his fears, the noose around his neck. But the words stuck. She had already seen too much of his mess, and knowing more would only endanger her. Better she remained innocent of whatever measures he took to protect them both.

Plausible deniability.

He knew what he was doing. Skirting the edges of legality was second nature to him. That was how the world of finance operated. Never criminal, just flexible. It wasn’t something he wanted her mixed up in.

But that wasn’t the real problem, was it?

She was making him impulsive. Undisciplined. Careless.

Every moment he spent with Rowan, he lost ground.

His life was built on strategy and calculated pragmatism. But with her? He acted on emotion. Snapped when he should have stayed cool. Gave away tells he never should have shown. Rowan had become the variable he hadn’t accounted for, and that vulture Blackwood had smelled it.

That disgusting prick had found his weak spot.

It was her .

‘I’ll see you at breakfast.’ He slipped into his jacket, armour against vulnerability.

‘Max, wait—’

But he was already striding from the room, each step widening the space he had fought so hard to keep – until she had slipped past his defences, making him forget the reality of their arrangement.

What was at stake.

The way she was looking at him. Like she saw something worth holding onto. That was more dangerous than anything Blackwood could throw at him.

Max clung to what he knew. The practical. The controllable. Blackwood was likely posturing. Max knew that. But he also knew there were financial traces to erase, contingency plans to set in motion in case Blackwood’s poking triggered an investigation. That was what mattered now – keeping Dunmarach. The distillery. His legacy.

Not Rowan. Not the way…

No.

Time to remember why they were really here. Because this couldn’t be real. No matter how much he wanted it to be.