Page 76

“It really isn’t.”

Soon he’s humming along happily to some rap that appears to be Russian, and I crack open the diary and navigate to my bookmark.

1st November 1802

Today is the day of the run. We leave at first light for Jamaica Inn, and I have hardly slept. Just the name Jamaica Inn fills me with excitement. It sounds like adventure which is something I have sorely missed since I returned to Cornwall.

Bran laughs at me when I say this, but why wouldn’t he? He has had his fill of adventure in the navy and then later as a smuggler. Doubtless, this all seems very humdrum to him. Sometimes I wonder if I am humdrum to him. Then I think of how he is with me when we are alone, and I know it is not true.

I intrigue him. If it were any other man, I would say that he savours having an aristocrat hanging on his every word. But Bran is different. He has no love for my kind, thinking us idle wastrels, and he would not be wrong in a lot of cases. However, other people’s opinions of him matter even less, and that feels to me like the first breath of fresh air when you fling a window open. I have, after all, spent my entire life caring about other people’s opinions of me.

He fascinates me. He is so clever and quick-witted, so commanding and sure in himself. I love the way he smells of sandalwood and how blue his eyes are. It is exciting to feel like this. Exciting and scary for he is a smuggler and I am a lord of the realm. And we are men. If anyone were to discover us, it would be disastrous, but when I am with him, I cannot bring myself to care.

Does he want me the way I want him, though? This has kept me awake in the small hours of the night. I think he does. It is in the way he stays closer to me than men usually do, the way he gazes at my lips as I talk.

So, at first light we will go. Bran is not convinced it is a good idea, but I told him it was vital for me to understand how my money is being spent. He raised one of those imperious brows of his and refrained from mentioning that I do not fund him in any way. He goes his own way, subject to no man’s bidding. I do not think he wanted to tell me no, anyway. I think he struggles to say no to me, and that is both a heady feeling but also a great responsibility, for he gives power over him to no one else.

The truth is I want to go with him. I would go anywhere to be at his side and listen to his wry asides. I will be completely alone with him far away from anyone else’s eyes. Sometimes I wonder if Bran is a last gift from my father. I think he suspected my nature and still loved me. He would have wanted for me not to be alone, which would account for his instruction in his last letter for me to meet Bran. That thought makes me smile.

I will take this diary on the trip, and if I have time, I will record what happens. I find that I like talking to you, diary. I have grown fond of you. You listen without wanting to speak of yourself, and you do not judge me. That would make you my closest friend.

Dawn is a red line on the horizon, and the birds are not even awake yet. I hear a knock at the kitchen door. I will speak with you soon.

I am writing this sitting in a snug room off the bar in Jamaica Inn. Bran has gone to do his business with the landlord, leaving me with a mug of ale and a stern injunction not to wander around the place.

I cannot blame him for this. From the brief glance I had into the taproom when we arrived, it seems that the inn is a harbour for some very dangerous men. Bran had stayed close at my side until we entered this room, and I could feel his unease. My insides were buzzing like a hive of bees had taken up residence.

Bodmin Moor was beautiful in a stark, lonely way. We took our horses. Bran’s is a black gelding called Sparrow, and he also had a fat little pony called Daisy. She had plodded along behind us laden down with barrels and intriguing-looking packages.

The moors had spread out before me, cold and desolate with low clouds banking the hills in mist. The wind roared across them unchecked by man’s buildings. It was cold and biting and made me bury my face in my scarf. The path was barely distinguishable, and the ground was boggy with pools of water waiting to catch the unsuspecting traveller, but Bran led the way with his usual calm surety. I imagine that he was a good captain in the navy.

We passed sheep roaming fleet-footed on the uneven ground, and at one point, we walked beside a brook, the clear water tumbling over stones and around a tree that dipped its branches low. Occasionally, I glimpsed a plume of smoke and the grey roof of a farm, but apart from that we were alone.

At first we rode quietly, but very soon we began to talk. I have never known a man so easy to talk with. I never feel like I have to control my words and present the façade I show in society. Instead, I can be myself—chaotic and eager—and he seems to like that.

I found myself melancholy in parts today. Bran told me a little of his history, and I saw for the first time why he dislikes my kind so much. He was cashiered out of the navy on a trumped-up charge when he objected to his commanding officer’s treatment of a sailor. Unfortunately, his commanding officer was the son of a lord and Bran found himself shut out of a career that he truly loved.

He came to Cornwall to lick his wounds and found himself again in smuggling. He seems to live an isolated life with many acquaintances but no one who truly knows him. I feel honoured that I might somehow be different because Bran has let me see him. It makes me feel special, although I have competition in the form of Richard Boynton, the vicar of the church at Porthkrogour. He and Bran share an unlikely friendship. They finish each other’s sentences and share a deep love of books.

He was apparently at the welcome supper, but I could not recall much of him, just a sense of dark hair and a solicitous manner. I was much too taken with Bran. It is becoming a theme of my life.

I hear footsteps and a noise at the door so I will put the diary away.

Midnight

I am writing this by the light of a lone candle. We are in a small bedchamber in Jamaica Inn, and outside it is dark as sin, with the occasional lozenge of light showing from other windows. I can hear men’s voices raised in song from the bar, but mostly in here it is quiet, with only the sound of Bran’s breathing.

He lies in the bed, the covers around his hips. His broad back is bare, the skin gleaming in the candlelight. I can see the awful marks from the lashes he was given when he was thrown out of the navy. They were supposed to be marks of shame, but he wears them as if they are medals.

His dark hair is loose, the long strands crow-black against the white pillow. I know now that they feel like silk on my fingers. His eyelashes are extraordinarily long and fan out on his cheeks, and his lips are curved in a small smile.

My body is wonderfully sore and even as I shift in my chair, I can feel the ache in my arse. My lips are chapped from his kisses.

I can hear you wondering, diary. You want to know how we went from two men in a snug room to lovers in a small bedchamber. Well, I will tell you because you are my friend, and as much as I want to shout out to the world that he is mine, I will never be able to do that.

When Bran came back with the innkeeper his face was dark with some feeling. “The mist has come down,” he told me.

This was not surprising news. It was thick when we arrived here and at one point on the moor, Bran had worried we might have to seek shelter.