When the Redcoats burst through her door, Bess knew. Her highwayman would return that night; they meant her to be the bait they caught him with. As they tied her up, fondling each breast in the process, her thoughts ran. How could she possibly warn him?

The musket poked her at each breath. She wiggled her fingers for something to do.

Bound, gagged, there was no noise she could make. She thought of her highwayman; his lips on hers, his hands in her hair. She loved him; she would not be the instrument of his death. She sighed, and the musket jabbed into her ribs.

Eyes wide, she understood. There was one noise she could make, one sound that would warn him. It did not matter as long as her highwayman was free.

She wiggled till her hands and fingers grew slippery. She reached, a finger brushed the musket, found the trigger. Like a statue she waited, watching through her window as the sun fell.

The moon rose, and she waited. The hoofbeats on the cobbles told her it was time. The musket rang its warning.