Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

R owan hunched deeper into Max’s Cambridge jumper, squinting at Dugald Drummond’s looping handwriting until the letters swam across the page. Her phone sat beside the ledger.

Go on, coward. Call your gran. Maybe she has a good day. Maybe she remembers.

Three days of Max’s moping and Rowan was done. He’d been all broody and silent, like a wounded stag. Retreating behind work and one-word answers. Avoiding her during the day, then showing up at night, all rigid muscle and unspoken tension. Not touching her.

And she had no idea why.

But since Blackwood’s phone call, there was a distance.

At night, Rowan often woke up to the shape of his back. Broad and unmoving, as if she weren’t there. He would reach out to her, sometimes, when he was fast asleep. But never consciously.

It was a miracle he still let her sleep in his bed.

No idea what’s wrong with him. Was it something I did or said or didn’t say or didn’t do?

All he’d told her was that this had to do with ‘business’ and that was it.

Rowan had never been good at knowing when to stop trying, so she pulled out all the stops. She pushed, she argued, she demanded – nothing. Talking went about as well as teaching a rock to dance. Eventually, she tried backing off, and that felt the worst of all.

There was only one tool left in her box. And she was about to use it.

Rowan’s finger hovered over her gran’s number. She’d made sure the phone was mounted on the wall next to her gran’s bed in the care home so she could always get it. But the daily calls had become a minefield of memory lapses and redirected conversations, each one chipping away at Rowan’s heart.

She answered on the sixth ring.

‘Hi, Gran, sunshine of my life. Are you busy?’

‘Hello, ma wee treasure! Naw, I just couldnae find my phone.’

‘Quick question – what’s in your shepherd’s pie? The one you used to make for me?’

‘Oh aye, that old thing.’ A pause stretched between them. ‘Now let me think… There’s mince. Tatties. And…carrots? Naw, that’s not right. Did I put carrots in?’

A knot formed in Rowan’s chest, pulling tighter every second. ‘I think so, aye.’

‘The recipe’s in ma wee green book. The one with the…the…’ Her voice wavered. ‘It was there a minute ago.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s okay.’ Rowan had known this could backfire. ‘Maybe we could talk about something else? How’s the garden club?’

‘What garden club?’

‘The one with Mrs Henderson?’

‘Who?’ Her gran’s voice held a thread of panic. ‘Oh, aye. The blond lass. I’m a daftie.’

After hanging up, Rowan stared at the ledgers. The words taunted her with their permanence. Centuries of preserved history, while her gran’s mind slipped away like water through cupped hands.

Her thumbs flew across the phone screen:

ME (13:21) Hi Maw! Need Gran’s shepherd’s pie recipe. The proper one. Emergency levels of comfort food required. x

Rowan opened her notebook, determined to immerse herself in work. Yet the page remained blank while her mind kept circling back to Max, to the way his shoulders had bunched up during Blackwood’s call, how his voice had dropped to a glacial chill.

Aye, his walls had slammed back up so hard and fast she’d heard the drawbridge chains rattle.

What had that creep Blackwood said to spook him?

The thing was, she’d started to see past Max’s exterior. Cracks in his facade that made her want to dig deeper. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she’d pushed too hard, asked too many questions.

Story of her life. Always poking at things better left alone.

She wanted to ease the tightness in his jaw with her fingertips. To comfort him.

But the truth was, she needed his comfort just as much.

‘Shite.’ She slumped forward, forehead touching cool wood. ‘When did this get so complicated?’

Her phone vibrated with a text from her mum:

MAW (13:23) Everything awright? Recipe incoming. Don’t burn down the fancy kitchen. xx

The recipe came in segments, peppered with warnings about browning the mince and not skimping on the Worcestershire sauce.

ME (13:24) Thanks! Trying to do something nice for The Laird. He’s been stressed and won’t talk about it.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then:

MAW (13:24) Men are always a bit weird. Feed him and see what falls out of his mouth.

Rowan snorted out a giggle. Trust her mum to cut through the bullshit with a bread knife.

The afternoon sun slanted through the library’s tall windows. She’d come to Dunmarach to write a story about Highland heritage and whisky traditions. Instead, she’d found the bloody history of oppression and exploitation and then stumbled into a different narrative altogether, one with no clear ending and too many complicated emotions.

‘Get it together.’ She shoved the chair back from the desk. ‘You’re not some lovesick teenager. You’re an aspiring journalist who happens to be temporarily married to an incredibly fit but emotionally stilted whisky heir.’

Who, inconveniently, happens to conjure up an entire greenhouse full of butterflies in my stomach with a single touch.

Rowan gathered her notes and tucked them into her backpack. The shepherd’s pie was a silly idea. Domestic gestures weren’t her forte. She’d once managed to burn pasta. The pot still bore the scars.

And yet.

Worth a try, right? Even if it meant potentially poisoning her interim husband with botched mince.

Rowan squared her shoulders. ‘Your family’s not the only ones with steel in their spine,’ she told the nearest ancestor portrait. ‘Aye, I know. Not quite what you pictured for the next Lady Drummond. But here we are.’

She’d be damned if she’d let anyone dead or alive – including Max – decide she wasn’t enough.

Rowan paused at the library door, her hand resting on the smooth brass handle. Through the window, she saw Dunmarach’s grounds stretching out like an oil painting. Muted greens and greys under the Scottish August sky. This place had its own gravity, pulling at something in her chest. Or maybe that was just its owner.

‘Righto,’ she said to the empty room. ‘Time to feed the beast.’

The kitchen smelled of browned mince, warmth radiating from the Aga’s black iron belly. Rowan prodded the shepherd’s pie with a fork and examined the peaks of mashed potato. Browned, but not burnt.

Victory!

She’d given the cook half the day off. Mr Calder had looked worried – like a man leaving his prize carrots in the care of a starved rabbit – but she’d sworn not to burn the place down. Reluctantly, he’d left.

Max’s footsteps echoed in the corridor. The scent must have lured him here. Part one of her master plan? Check. He paused in the doorway, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, and took in the scene.

‘You… cooked ?’ His words held a note of scepticism.

‘Allegedly.’ She pointed at the pie with her fork. ‘Though I make no promises about its edibility.’

‘Brave of you to test it on the lord of the manor.’

‘Well, if you kick the bucket, I inherit everything, so…’ She grinned. ‘Kidding. Mostly.’

Max crossed to the Aga and peered at the pie. ‘It looks…competent.’

‘High praise indeed.’ She hip-checked him away from the cooker. ‘Go sit down before you hurt yourself, trying to compliment my culinary skills.’

He dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, stretched his legs out, and crossed his arms. ‘I didn’t think you would take marital duties seriously.’

She scoffed. ‘Glad all that brooding didn’t steal your sense of humour. We’re not in the fifties anymore. And that’s not a duty, that’s me showing you some care. Don’t expect it to happen again anytime soon.’

Rowan plated their food, placed his portion in front of him, and sat down. She blew on her fork and tested it with the tip of her tongue.

Max took his first bite and his eyebrows shot up. ‘This is…’ He paused, searching for words.

‘If you say “edible” I’ll throw my fork at you. And I was our pub’s dart champion.’

‘Not bad.’ He took another bite. ‘Consider me impressed. I can taste the love.’

Rowan’s fork clattered against her plate. ‘Sorry, what was that? Did the mighty Maxwell Drummond make a joke?’

‘Don’t expect that to happen again anytime soon.’

It wasn’t the first bite. Or the second. But somewhere between Max’s third forkful and the way his shoulders softened – imperceptibly at first, then definitively – Rowan knew. The walls were coming down. Not with a dramatic crash but a quiet crumble. She held her breath. Max didn’t do intentional openness, but his body was giving him away.

He realised it, too. And for a moment, he seemed to fight it.

But food reached places words couldn’t.

‘My gran would be chuffed,’ she said, testing the waters. ‘Wooing Laird Maxwell Alexander Drummond of Dunmarach with nothing but mince and mash.’

A small huff, almost a laugh, slipped out.

Her gran’s shepherd’s pie had done what days of talking, touching, and prodding could not. Magic, that. Absolute bloody magic.

‘No one has ever cooked for me before,’ he said. ‘Not for me…specifically. And you made my comfort food. You remembered .’

‘Aye, well. I used my gran’s recipe. Worked for me all these years, so…’

‘How is she?’

‘Some days are better than others.’ Rowan jabbed at a potato peak, she didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Today wasn’t great.’

He nodded without pushing for details. But his knee rested against hers under the table.

After they’d finished eating, Max stood to clear their plates. He set the dishes in the sink and turned. For a second, he assessed her with a look that cinched around her like a wire drawn tight. Not like he was deciding something, but like the decision had already been made, and he was bracing himself for it. Then he crossed the kitchen in three long strides, pulled her up from her chair, and kissed her.

Just like that.

His mouth tasted of wine and him and home. Relief swept through her first, a hard, breath-stealing thing. Then the elation. Then something heavier, unfurling inside her like it planned to stay.

For days, she’d felt him slipping through her fingers, and she hadn’t known how to hold on. Now, he was kissing her like she was something he never wanted to lose.

When he pulled back, his forehead touched hers. ‘I thought… It’s my duty to protect my legacy and you.’ He sighed. ‘But staying away from you was never going to work.’

‘I’m glad you’re finally seeing the light.’

‘Rowan… I’m not a good man. You must know that you can’t fix something that has been broken this long.’

‘I don’t need protection. And I’m definitely not trying to fix you, because I like the man you are,’ she said. ‘But if I were , I would succeed. Naturally.’

‘Naturally.’ He exhaled, rough, almost like a laugh. ‘Thank you. For this.’ He gestured at the kitchen, at them.

Her heart stumbled. ‘Aye, anytime.’

His answering smile held promises that made her breath catch. And when he lifted her onto the counter, his touch was tender enough to make her believe them.

‘You might not think of yourself as a good man,’ she said, nuzzling his neck, ‘but you’ve been such a good husband, finishing every bite.’

His lips curved into a lopsided smile. ‘And I know how to thank you for cooking.’

Her pulse kicked into a sprint. ‘What do you have in mind?’

Max’s voice was a husky whisper against her cheek. ‘I’m going to make you come for dessert, of course.’

‘That’s a hell of a thank you. What about a bit of kissing first?’

He caught her mouth with his, still smiling. The first slide of his tongue was slow, teasing – then deeper, hungrier. A firm hand at her jaw, a quiet growl in his throat, like stopping wasn’t an option. He reached for her jeans, popping the buttons with ruthless efficiency. Hot fingers dipped past lace, past every layer, and—

‘Fuck!’ She gasped.

‘Oh, Rowan.’ He brushed over her clit with gentle precision. ‘You really want your dessert, don’t you?’

‘I think…I earned it.’ She bit down on the edge of her bottom lip.

‘You think cooking for me earns you an orgasm?’ His voice was low and hoarse. ‘Rowan, you could burn down the kitchen and I’d still be on my knees for you.’

Heat rushed to her core, a pull of want so intense it sent her thighs clenching.

His breath left him in a staggered burst like he felt it too. ‘I don’t even have to work for it, do I?’ he said with a smug grin.

‘Sure you do.’ Her head tipped back, her hips canting forward to feel more of him. ‘Like that…’

‘You know how to make me happy.’ His face was serious as his finger pushed in knuckle-deep. ‘How to make me forget everything else.’

Her hand fumbled for him, clawing at his suit trousers until she found him. Thick, hard, burning through the fabric.

‘That’s a good wife. Taking care of me even when I don’t deserve it.’

Then he added another digit, his teeth scraped her neck, and her whole body fucking pleaded. A desperate flutter, a slick, involuntary pulse.

‘Jesus, Rowan.’ His lips brushed her ear. ‘Are you there already?’

Nothing existed but the press of his palm against her clit, the pressure of his fingers inside her. ‘Max, p-please—’

‘Shhh. I got you.’ He stroked that spot that made her world detonate.

‘Oh my god, oh my god.’

And then he destroyed her. Sharp flicks of his wrist, the hard press of his palm.

‘Ah! Max! You… Oh, fuck, Max—’

Her orgasm cracked her open, tearing her apart and piecing her back together in the same breath. She screamed his name, over and over, tightening around him like she was never letting him go.

Max groaned, his temple against hers as he worked her through it, whispering something she couldn’t hear over the roar in her ears. His fingers were still inside her, owning every aftershock.

She reached up and cupped his cheek. ‘I—’

He stopped her with a kiss. ‘You’re welcome.’

Her laugh was shaky. ‘Cocky much? But aye, thank you. That was better than a lava cake.’

‘You did earn it. You do deserve it.’ He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

‘What, for cooking?’

‘For being you. I can’t resist you, Rowan. I can’t. You’re the only real thing. The only one who cares for me. The only one.’

Bright joy lit up inside her. Like popping the cork on a shaken bottle. She hadn’t expected this . Not from him. Not after the past few days. Not so freely given.

But it was everything she wanted.

She ached to freeze this moment, hoard it, live inside it forever.

He lifted her into his arms – a girl could get used to that mode of transport – and carried her out of the kitchen.

‘Let’s go to bed. Because you see, wifey,’ he said and gently nipped her earlobe. ‘I haven’t had my dessert yet.’