Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

T he Drummond legacy was on the chopping block, and Blackwood had sharpened his axe.

The low swell of Edinburgh’s mid-morning traffic drifted up from the streets below, muffled by the floor-to-ceiling windows. The trust was gathered to pick apart their marriage, every glance and whisper weighing whether Max and Rowan were frauds. And whether Dunmarach would be ripped from their hands.

Ironic. They had been a genuine couple in every way. Waking up holding each other, her hand finding his beneath the table without thinking, his shirts migrating into her wardrobe. Her scent marking home.

And yet here they were, on trial for pretending.

Max’s mind was oddly clear despite the weight pressing against his sternum.

Blackwood’s voice droned on. ‘…clear suspicion of premeditation and fraud. A hastily arranged marriage license. No prior relationship history with Miss MacKay. The pattern suggests—’

‘Mrs Drummond.’ The correction left Max’s lips before he registered speaking. Every head at the long table turned toward him. ‘My wife’s name is Rowan Drummond.’

Blackwood’s lips thinned. ‘The pattern suggests a calculated arrangement designed to circumvent the trust’s requirements and the will’s inheritance clause. Mr Drummond’s reputation in the financial sector precedes him. He views everything as a transaction.’

Blackwood had nothing tangible, that much was clear by now, but he tried anyway. Beneath the table, Rowan’s hand found Max’s thigh, grounding him. It always did.

‘Furthermore,’ Blackwood brandished another document, ‘their living arrangements at Dunmarach raise questions. Separate bedrooms—’

‘…which merged within days. There was…snoring,’ Max noted. Several trustees shifted uncomfortably.

‘After I monitored compliance.’ Blackwood’s tone dripped with insinuation. ‘This trust was created to safeguard the Drummond estate. We might lose the chance to restore its value, potentially even finding a new owner with the vision to capitalise on its true potential.’

Max ground his teeth, a silent battle with his temper. Blackwood’s idea of ‘true potential’ was turning Dunmarach into a museum with a gift shop and offloading the distillery to an overseas conglomerate.

Loyalty to the Drummond legacy, my arse.

Beside him, Rowan radiated quiet fury. He sensed her gathering breath for a blistering retort and touched her wrist – the barest pressure of skin on skin.

Not yet, my fierce little warrior.

‘The trust must consider,’ Blackwood concluded, ‘whether this marriage serves the spirit of the requirements, or merely exploits their letter. Does Miss MacKay – Mrs Drummond – truly understand our heritage? Our responsibilities? Or is she simply—’

‘Enough!’ Max stood, the word falling like a sword stroke. Sunlight caught his wedding ring as he planted both palms on the table. ‘You want truth? Here it is.’

The room held its breath.

‘You’re not challenging our marriage. You’re trying to take this estate away from us. To control its future, the distillery’s profits. Yes, I married her because the clause demanded it. But I stayed because I love her.’

The trustees exchanged glances. Blackwood’s face mottled.

‘You question our – Rowan’s – understanding of heritage?’ Max gestured to the stack of research papers before him. ‘She’s spent weeks documenting Dunmarach’s history. Not the glamorous parts, the hard truths. The clearances. The exploitation of labour. The involvement in the transatlantic trade.’

He met each pair of the trustees’ eyes in turn. ‘She taught me that true legacy isn’t preserving what was but acknowledging where we went wrong.’

‘And more than acknowledging it, working to right those wrongs,’ Rowan interjected. ‘That’s why we started the history project. Because no one else will give those stories the respect they deserve. Not Blackwood, not the conglomerates he’d sell us out to. I couldn’t live with that, and I don’t think you could either.’

‘Pretty words,’ Blackwood sneered. ‘If this sham of a marriage compromises the trust’s ability to maintain Dunmarach, we’ll ensure it’s handed to someone who understands its wo—’

‘I drove to Glasgow.’ Max’s confession silenced Blackwood. ‘When her grandmother was in hospital. First time behind the wheel since…Martin died. Thirteen years of avoiding it, letting fear win.’

Rowan’s inhale carried in the silence. He didn’t dare look at her. He would lose his composure if he did.

‘You want more proof?’ he asked. ‘We’re not draining Dunmarach. We’re building it up. And the numbers prove it.’

Rowan’s eyes burned holes into Blackwood’s lapel as she began to speak. ‘The distillery’s output has increased by twelve per cent. We’re tapping into new markets through storytelling, especially by targeting niche audiences and young female consumers.’

‘And look at our community engagement initiatives,’ Max added. ‘The history project my wife has started with local families. She doesn’t just understand our heritage. She’s writing its next chapter.’

He pushed away from the table, pacing the length of the windows. All eyes were on him. ‘You’re right about one thing, Richard. I do calculate everything. So here’s the maths: My wife makes me better. She keeps me in Scotland. And she turned Dunmarach from a graveyard into something alive. That’s a hundred per cent improvement. And the best ROI of my life.’

Turning back, he pinned a stare at Blackwood. ‘Love isn’t proved by how we met. It’s proved by choice. And every day, I choose her.’

‘This is hardly appropri—’ Blackwood began.

‘I’m not finished. You want to talk legacy? Here’s mine: I chose to examine my family’s mistakes instead of hiding them.’

He turned to the trust members. ‘You knew my parents. To them, appearance mattered more than truth. That’s why they never questioned the accident that killed Martin. Never asked why their seventeen-year-old son took all the blame.’

Susan Campbell’s expression gentled. ‘We always wondered what happened. But your parents made it clear it wasn’t to be discussed.’

‘Martin took the Porsche and got so drunk he couldn’t walk. I had no experience, but I had no choice. I had to drive. Martin wasn’t the perfect golden boy everyone wanted him to be. But he was my brother. And I forgive both of us for what happened. My wife taught me that.’

Max took a breath. ‘If preserving the Drummond legacy means denying what Rowan and I are building – then keep the castle. Keep the distillery. I keep her.’

Rowan stood and before anyone could object, she crossed to Max and took his hand.

‘Though preferably,’ she added, her voice carrying notes of steel, ‘we keep it all. Because that estate?’ She met Blackwood’s glare. ‘That’s our future. Not Max’s inheritance or my meal ticket. You question my commitment to this estate, but you’ve done nothing to help it thrive. All you want to do is sell it. This trust isn’t meant to line your pockets or indulge your ego. Unlike you, I care about what Dunmarach means to the people who depend on it. The trust isn’t your personal chessboard, and Dunmarach isn’t for sale.’

Max’s chest swelled. She wasn’t just standing by him, she was standing with him, fierce and unshakable. He felt the solid presence of her ring. Their ring.

She smiled up at him. The sight didn’t knock him off balance. It reminded him why he would never stand steady without her. How perfectly she fit, how right this felt.

‘So.’ Max turned back to the trust members, Rowan’s small hand in his. ‘Judge our marriage by whatever metrics you choose. But know this: I love my wife. She makes me want to be worthy of the name Drummond. Not by clinging to the past, but by creating something new.’

Murmurs filled the conference room like waves against shore. Max kept his spine straight, Rowan’s hand clasping his, as chairman Archie MacKenzie cleared his throat and began to speak.

‘The trust acknowledges the unconventional nature of this union in its early stages.’ MacKenzie’s face creased. ‘However, Mr Drummond has more than demonstrated his commitment to both wife and legacy. Maxwell, you’re married and you live in Scotland. The clause is hereby fulfilled. Your father always placed his trust in Blackwood’s pragmatism. Perhaps he believed it was necessary, but I’m not sure I agree anymore.’

Blackwood’s chair screeched against marble. ‘My Lord, the evidence shows—’

‘…two young people who are bringing new life to a traditional estate.’ MacKenzie’s tone allowed no debate. ‘This trust’s purpose is not to preserve the past in amber or to profit, but to shepherd our heritage into the future. Strictly speaking, the marriage may not have started in the spirit of the will’s requirements. But intentions evolve and so do circumstances. We have to weigh intent against outcomes. What matters is what is being achieved, and whether this union is bringing stability or risk.’

Relief cascaded through Max’s limbs. Rowan’s fingers tightened around his.

MacKenzie let his glance slide over the other trustees. Everyone nodded in agreement. ‘The trust finds no cause to challenge the marriage’s validity. Furthermore, we suggest Mr Blackwood’s supervisory services are no longer required.’

Blackwood’s nostrils flared. ‘This is highly irregular. You’ll regret this – when she’s bled the estate dry. Numbers can be manipulated. What happens when those little pet projects drain resources instead of adding value? Sentiment doesn’t keep the lights on!’

‘And yet, those so-called pet projects have already increased engagement and revenue.’ Rowan smiled. ‘Sentiment might not keep the lights on, but neither does your greed. What does is vision. And that’s what we have.’

‘How dare you, you little—’

That’s enough, Blackwood.’ Max adjusted his cufflinks, voice razor-sharp. ‘What’s highly irregular is how long we put up with you. You never protected Dunmarach. You only wanted to sell it. We’re done.’

The solicitor’s angry exit left silence in its wake. MacKenzie rose, the others following suit.

‘Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Drummond.’ His handshake was firm. ‘We look forward to seeing Dunmarach’s next chapter unfold, and of course, the release of the thirty-year-old single malt.’

Minutes bled together as hands were shaken, pleasantries exchanged. Max moved through it on autopilot. Only when they reached the Maybach did reality sink in.

‘We did it,’ she said.

‘We did. Wouldn’t have happened without you. You’re a star, Mrs Drummond.’

The long drive north stretched before them. Max took the driver’s seat. Oliver still handled the occasional long trip, but Max enjoyed the independence and the pride of knowing he didn’t have to rely on anyone else anymore. Rowan’s playlist filled the cabin with Taylor Swift as Edinburgh’s spires receded in the mirrors.

‘What you said in there…’ She toyed with her ring. ‘About choosing me over the estate.’

‘I meant it. I would live in a shed with you. Though I’m glad it didn’t come to that.’

‘Mhm. Me too. I’ve grown rather fond of our castle. Also, a shed for you is probably a small penthouse in Kensington.’

‘Our castle.’ The words tasted right. ‘Speaking of which, I’ve been thinking about renovations.’

‘You have?’

‘The old library. What if we turned it into a public archive? Display space for your histories, research materials for visiting scholars, and collaboration with universities.’

Rowan’s eyes lit. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’ He changed lanes smoothly. ‘You’re right – Dunmarach’s story isn’t about the Drummonds. It’s about everyone who has shaped it. It’s time we acknowledged all of that.’

Eventually, the dramatic Highland hills rose around them, as familiar as breathing now. More than London ever was.

‘I love you, husband.’

‘I love you, too.’ Max lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. ‘We should celebrate.’

Her grin turned wicked. ‘Take me home. Then I’ll show you how I celebrate.’

He smiled. The road unwound before them, each mile carrying them closer to Dunmarach. To their future, written in old stones and modern dreams. Some choices shaped destinies. Some loves rewrote legacies.

This, Max knew with bone-deep certainty, would do both.