Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.

Author's Note: I'm late to the Hamilton game. Just finished, "Hamilton: An American Revolution" this weekend and listened to the entire soundtrack and well, now I'm on the bandwagon. And this literally came to me in like three hours. Based on "The Highwayman" poem by Alfred Noyes. Not historically accurate to American history, obviously.

Part I: The Highwaymen

The British messengers rode warily in the darkness. Their eyes darted back and forth across the road, into the ditches and down into the trees. They had meant to take the trip in daylight, but General Lord Cornwallis's message had been deemed too important to wait until first light.

"But sir," Smythe had protested. "The road to Princeton-"

His superior had fixed him with a glare so intense he'd nearly burned a hole through him. "You believe it then?" he questioned. "The story of ghosts on the road to Princeton?"

"N-no, sir," the younger had tried to walk his words back. "I only mean-"

"I know very well what you mean. And when I get my hands on those….ghosts…as they're purported to be, I will hang every one of them until the vultures have had their fill." He seethed with barely-controlled anger. "Take Daugherty and Watson with you," he said after a moment. "If it takes but one to send a message, then I have three chances." He said no more after that, clasping his hands together and looking out the window, effectively ending the conversation.

The moon was out, though the three British messengers would never have known that. The trees in this area had grown so close together the branches were intertwined over the top of the road. Snow was falling, but the road was barely white, compared to the blanketing on either side.

Smythe shivered, and didn't know if it was the chill in the air or the chill in his bones that caused it. Just one week prior, two men from his unit had traversed this road, but they hadn't made it to their destination, and they hadn't returned to camp. No trace of them were found. And a week before that, a single messenger had collapsed in Smythe's tent mumbling incoherent thoughts about four figures in black who had appeared from the trees, stolen the communication he had been delivering, and then disappeared just as quickly into the shadows. He had been so distraught that their commanding officer had sent him back to England.

They rode in silence for, it seemed, hours, when really, it was just a few miles to their destination. Smythe looked at his riding partners. Daugherty and Watson met his gaze, and the three choked out nervous laughter. Ridiculous, Smythe thought. There is nothing sinister on this road-

"Look!" Watson was the first to see it. A light, just off his shoulder, flitting through the trees like a wood sprite in one of Shakespeare's plays. He pulled back so hard on the reins his horse reared, startling Daugherty and Smythe.

"What on earth-" Smythe spoke, the sound of his voice sounding alien in the darkness. He struggled to rein in his horse, and glared at Watson in the light barely filtering through the branches above them.

"I-I thought I saw…" Watson trailed off. The light was nowhere to be seen. Trembling, he swallowed. "Nothing. I saw nothing."

Four shapes burst from the trees ahead of them, four men on horseback, wearing dark clothes and long cloaks atop four dark horses. Silently, they circled the three British soldiers.

"The stories are true," Daugherty gasped, his eyes darting between the four. He reached for his pistol, his hands shaking so badly that he dropped it into the snow.

One of the shadows dismounted his horse, handing the reins to the figure next to him, and stepped closer to them. "The stories are only partly true," it countered, removing its' hood to reveal a young man, barely into his twenties, if Smythe was any guess. Dark hair pulled back, a goatee, and intense eyes that seemed to glow in the absence of moonlight. He picked up the fallen pistol, running a thumb over the barrel. The man- for that's what this was, no shade or spirit, but a flesh and blood man-gestured to his companions. "As we are not ghosts," he continued. He let the clasp of his cloak fall, revealing the blue and white and brass of an American Revolutionist.

Smythe swore. "Revolutionists!"

The man gave a short bow. "Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton," he announced. "My companions, John Laurens, Hercules Mulligan, and the Marquis de Lafayette." He nodded in turn to each of his companions. Then, he pointed the pistol at Smythe's saddlebags. "We'd like to relieve you of those missives," Hamilton told him.

"You must be mad," Watson breathed. "We will not just hand them over."

Mulligan stepped forward, his hulking frame almost towering over Watson, even on horseback. "You will, if you prefer to have hands."

"Down, boy," Laurens joked, giving Mulligan a gentle nudge. He pointed a pistol at Watson and his laughing smile disappeared almost instantly. "Although he does make a point."

"Oui," Lafayette, the Frenchman, nodded. He pointed his own pistol at Daugherty. "You will," he threatened, in accented English.

Hamilton grinned. "I'm afraid you're outnumbered, old chaps," he said, throwing on his most exaggerated English accent. He cocked the pistol. "Very slowly, take them out of the bag." His tone left no room for argument.

Smythe made his choice, reaching as if to open the saddlebag, but reaching into the back of his uniform instead and drawing his pistol.

Hamilton reacted first, the crack of the pistol reverberating through the silence and the flash of gunpowder illuminating Smythe's look of surprise as he slid sideways off his mount, dropping to the frozen dirt.

Daugherty and Watson's horses shied, and before the two men could either rein them in or draw their own sidearms, Mulligan and Lafayette had yanked them off their horses and run them through with daggers pulled seemingly from thing air, sending the horses galloping down the road, riderless.

Laurens watched as Hamilton pulled the saddlebag from Smythe's horse, pulled out the pieces of parchment. "Troop movements," he said triumphantly. "I'd say this calls for a drink."

Laurens frowned. "Alexander, my friend…that could have been Cornwallis's breakfast order, and you'd say it would call for a drink."

Hamilton smirked and offered Laurens a touche nod. "Fair enough," he admitted. The four of them mounted their horses, Laurens leading Smythe's, and they rode off on up the road.

Part II: The Jealous Ostler

Aaron Burr looked up as boisterous laughter invaded the calm warmth of the stable. He refrained from rolling his eyes as he saw who it was that interrupted his mucking. "Mr. Hamilton," he acknowledged, forcing some cordiality into his voice. "Back again."

"Mr. Burr, sir," Hamilton tipped a nonexistent hat to him. Burr laughed along with him, curling his toes inside his boots. As if this wasn't the thousandth time I've heard that…and he thinks it's amusing every single time. The man whom rumors said was practically General Washington's second in command came by this time almost every week, and left quite drunk. Burr did not like Hamilton and barely tolerated his friends.

"Watch over these horses," Hamilton instructed, practically dropping the reins in Burr's hands. His three friends showed a little more restraint; John Laurens even going so far as to tie his own horse to the hitching post before following his friends inside.

Burr seethed, upending a bucket and startling Hamilton's horse. He sighed and ran a hand gently down the horse's nose to calm it down. It wasn't the animal's fault that his master was a cocksure bastard.

The night had been cold, but inside the tavern it was warm and comfortable. Hamilton, Mulligan, Laurens and Lafayette found a seat at what the rest of the taverngoers had deemed 'their' table, a round one with four chairs tucked into a corner, away from the windows, and under the stairs that led upstairs to the proprietor's living quarters.

Phillip Schuyler had owned Hill Tavern for as long as anyone could remember; in fact, not many could remember a time before it. The Revolution had brought him all sorts as of late, and he served the British and Americans with equal distinction. For the most part, the two groups seemed to avoid each other, which was either a testament to their maneuvers or a well-heeded warning by either side's commanding officers.

"We can deliver these to General Washington tonight, and have them overrun by noon tomorrow," Lafayette was studying the papers Hamilton had liberated from the British officers.

"Assuming Hamilton is awake by then, and not hungover," Mulligan countered.

Hamilton laughed. "You're getting me confused with John, Hercules," he pointed out, as Laurens returned to the table with four pints in hand. "I could drink everything he's brought to the table and be coherent."

"Coherent is debatable," Laurens joked back. "One pint in and Alexander is so incoherent he makes Lafayette sound like a native New Yorker!"

Lafayette insulted him in French even as he kept reading.

"At least one of you has a way with words," a new voice interrupted, and all four men went completely mute as Eliza Schuyler came past the table. She had her dark hair tied back in a braid, a dark red ribbon tying it back in striking contrast to her sky blue dress. She turned her dark brown eyes to Alexander Hamilton. "You're back."

Hamilton inclined his head. "Couldn't stay away, Miss Eliza. You're looking as radiant as ever."

She looked at Laurens. "How much has he had already?"

"I'm afraid it's not your father's fine ale, but the sight of you that has me so intoxicated, Miss Eliza," Hamilton spoke before Laurens had a chance.

"Mon Dieu," Lafayette groaned. "Some of us are trying to concentrate."

Mulligan rolled his eyes over his mug. "Oh, go on, the two of you, and let us drink in peace."

"No one needs to tell me twice," Hamilton agreed smoothly, standing up and offering Eliza his hand. The two of them made their way to the back door and out into the night, rounding the corner into the stable and hardly making it inside before Hamilton's hands were running up and down Eliza's bodice and her hands were tangled in his hair.

"And what was your catch this evening?" Eliza breathed into his ear, sending shivers down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. She nipped at his ear and he melted further into the stable walls.

"Besides a wily, feral cat?" Hamilton gasped, struggling to maintain his composure. "Nothing that would concern an upstanding woman-damn it-" Eliza had apparently taken offense to 'upstanding,' and he quickly corrected the grievance. "A woman such as yourself."

"I worry for you," Eliza said suddenly, a moment of honesty in the throes of passion.

"You needn't," he replied, confused by the sudden change of pace. "Look, I'm here in one piece."

"If they ever found out…about you, about Lafayette, or Mulligan, or John…"

Hamilton pulled her close and she clung to him. He whispered soothingly in her ear, running his hands down her back, placing one on her head and resting her head against his chest. "How could they ever?" he whispered reassuringly. "The only people who know of this are General Washington, and you. And I trust him with my life and you…with everything else." He kissed the top of her head. "I love you, Eliza Schuyler."

"I love you too," she whispered back. "But I still worry. I lie awake at night most nights, worrying for you."

"I'll watch for you next week, then," Hamilton teased her. "Waiting at your bedroom window for me to arrive, pacing back and forth."

She hit him playfully on the chest. "I won't worry that much," she teased him. "Some of us have to do honest work for a living."

"Shh," Hamilton pressed a finger to her lips. "Don't let that secret get out."

But they were not alone.

Aaron Burr listened, frozen and crouched in the stall next to the two, his heart pounding. Oh, he'd heard from the British soldiers who came in during the day, about the ghosts who attacked men on the way to Princeton, and who made off into the night like wisps of smoke.

Of course. It all made sense. He was surprised no one had put it together sooner.

Alexander Hamilton. Hercules Mulligan. Marquis de Lafayette, and John Laurens.

They were the Highwaymen!

Part III: The Plot

The men in red coats barely noticed he was there. Aaron Burr had to clear his throat more than once before one finally looked up. He glanced at the stablehand, giving him a once over. "Is there a reason you're standing here, taking up good air?" he asked disdainfully.

Burr wanted to punch him, but knew if he did then his revenge on Alexander Hamilton would never happen. Revenge on the upstart soldier-Lieutenant Colonel, he thought with a sneer-who treated him like dirt and who was having relations with Eliza-his Eliza, though she didn't know it. The night before had been the final straw. He couldn't get the sounds of Eliza and that bastard Hamilton out of his head, heard her sighs of happiness every time he closed his eyes.

No, better to cower, he decided. "I beg your pardon, Your Excellency," he said, pulling the title out of the air. "But I have information someone such as yourself seems fit to know."

"What information could you possibly have?" one of the other men spoke up, but the man Burr had addressed held up a hand.

"A moment, Percival. Let the man speak. After all, it must be of importance for an American to be speaking to us, heaven knows they'd rather brashly shoot first." He looked up at Burr. "I am Lieutenant Graves," he introduced himself. "And you are?"

"A-Aaron Burr, sir," and as the phrase tumbled off his lips his body ignited in fury.

"Mr. Burr," Graves tried it out. "What information do you have for us?"

"The identity of the highwaymen," Burr blurted out. "The ones who have been ambushing your men on the way to Princeton."

Murmurs erupted around the long table. Graves held up a hand to silence them. "Gentlemen," he said. He looked at Burr. "Continue."

"Their leader is Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton," Burr confessed. "He comes here in the evenings occasionally, bragging about his exploits." In truth, he'd only ever heard the one, which wasn't a brag so much as a bedroom confession.

"I see." Graves was contemplative. "And who does he brag of his conquests to? Who might I interrogate about his next move?"

Burr fell silent, his eyes darting toward the bar, where Eliza Schuyler was laughing with her father.

"Ah." Graves said, noticing. "The owner? Or his lovely daughter?"

"Stay away from her," Burr growled quickly.

Graves chuckled. "Oh ho," he realized. "Your information comes at a cost, I see. You love that bar wench, do you? And this Lieutenant Colonel you speak of also has her in his sights?"

Burr said nothing, but the expression on his face spoke volumes.

Graves was silent as well. Then, "I can work with this information. Tell me something, Burr. How often do Hamilton and his cohorts come round this place?"

"Nearly every week from yesterday," Burr reported. "Like clockwork, around midnight."

Graves considered that. "Then I believe," he said, looking around the table, "that's an appointment we should keep also."

The moon was high in the sky as Eliza Schuyler busied herself wiping down mugs behind the bar a week later. She was trying not to worry about Alexander and his friends. The clock showed 11:30. They would be here soon.

The door opened, and Eliza looked up in surprise. He's early? But- Her eyes widened as three men in the red uniforms of the British Army came through the door. But they're never here at this time….She gasped as she realized.

They were here for him.

"We're closed," she bluffed, keeping the counter between herself and the men.

"As we understand it," the one of higher rank said, leaning on the bar, "you're due for some other customers shortly, and we wish to wait for them."

"There's no one coming," Eliza said quickly, too quickly. She hadn't seen the two other men flank her, come around the bar. They grabbed her arms, pinning them to her sides. "My father is here," she warned them. "I'll scream."

"Your father is unconscious in the stable," Lieutenant Graves told her, and Eliza's breath caught in her throat. "It's just you and us. But soon…your dear Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton will be riding up that road. We're told you said you would wait for him upstairs."

She screamed, but it was cut off by one of the men holding her prisoner, clapping a hand over her mouth and pressing her back against the rows of mugs.

Lieutenant Graves leaned over the bar. "We mustn't keep him waiting, should we."

Part IV: The Plot in Motion

John Laurens arrived at the tavern from Washington's camp a few miles away. General Washington had had some details to work out about the coming battle, and so had sent Hamilton, Mulligan, and Lafayette out to do their work for the evening. Laurens had stayed behind, working on the logistics. Now, finally, he was done. It was nearly midnight.

"Mr. Burr?" he called out into the stable, leading his horse. There were no other horses in the stable, but the lanterns were burning. The others aren't here yet. He tethered his horse to one of the rails, and stepped into the warmth. "Mr. Burr, sir?"

He nearly tripped over something, and caught himself on the wall of one of the stalls. His eyes widened at the sight of a bound and gagged Phillip Schuyler lying half-buried in the hay. John dropped to his knees, feeling for signs of life. The older man was breathing, just unconscious. What in the hell… "Mr. Burr-" he began, and ducked as something came flying toward his head. He dove out of the way, rolled, and came up facing Aaron Burr, holding a shovel, and looking murderous.

Eliza struggled as Graves's men tied her to the post of her four-poster bed, throwing open the window and letting the cold night air rush into the room. They pulled her hands behind her and secured them together, then wrapped a length around her waist and ankles. She pulled at the restraints, but nothing budged. Then, Graves appeared with the sash to her nightgown, pulled off the one laid out on her bed, and tied it around her mouth. Eliza couldn't hold back the tears threatening to fall.

Graves chuckled. "Don't look so sad, my dear Eliza," he told her, tilting her chin so she had to look at him. "Nothing will happen to you, if you play along," he said. "Mr. Burr has informed us he'd prefer you in one piece."

Eliza's eyes widened at the betrayal, and pulled harder on her bonds.

"Now, for one last thing," Graves told her, stepping toward her with his rifle. Eliza froze. Graves set it upright, the stock resting on the floor. He was using the curtain tieback to secure it to the bedpost, so that the barrel was just under Eliza's ribs. Then, he bent down so he was below the window frame. "If you make any attempt to warn your Alexander Hamilton, I will not hesitate to shoot you."

Alexander Hamilton, Mulligan, and Lafayette rode at breakneck speed toward Hill Tavern, Hamilton giddy with the evening's procurement of an ammunition order and the thought of seeing Eliza.

The tavern came into sight over the rise, and Hamilton could see the light on in Eliza's room on the second floor. He grinned. I'm going to have to tease her about staying up for me, he decided.

Laurens dodged the shovel and swung a fist at Aaron Burr, catching the stablehand in the stomach. The older man keeled over, and Laurens made for the door. Burr caught him around the ankles and Laurens fell forward, his chest and very nearly, his face, slamming into the packed dirt floor. I have to warn Alexander and the others- they're riding into a trap!

Eliza could hear the laughter of Mulligan, Lafayette and Hamilton as they rode up the road. She struggled, feeling the cold barrel of the rifle under her ribcage. If I don't do something, this man is going to kill Alexander. Her eyes flicked down to the rifle. The trigger was near her foot. Graves's attention was on the window.

If I can reach the trigger…

It was a horrible realization. Alexander didn't know, didn't realize he was riding into a trap. Graves had told her he would kill her anyway if she tried to signal him. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. And, if it meant Alexander would live another day…Eliza's foot moved, ever so slightly, toward the rifle, resigned to her decision. Oh Alexander…I hope you can forgive me…

Laurens felt himself get flipped over on his back, the point of the shovel coming down toward his face. He moved at the last second, and it pinged into the dirt. He grabbed the handle and jerked, hard. It caught Burr off balance and he brought his boots up, sending the other man flying over the top of him and into one of the stalls. Laurens righted himself, running for the barn door. He heard Burr curse.

Eliza's toe touched the trigger. She closed her eyes. I love you, my dearest Alexander.

Laurens yanked open the barn door. Alexander and the others were just steps from him. His eyes caught Alexander's. "Alex!" he yelled. "Run!"

Upstairs, Eliza's foot froze in place.

Part V: The Battle of Hill Tavern

Hamilton locked eyes with John Laurens as his friend screamed at him to run. Then, Laurens was being yanked back inside the barn. "Go!" Hamilton yelled at Mulligan, who was already off his horse and running for the barn. Hamilton left his horse in the road as Lafayette followed him into the tavern at a dead sprint. The two of them entered, looking around. "Phillip!" Hamilton called. "Eliza?" His voice nearly broke on the last syllable of her name.

Neither of them received an answer. "Search the building," Alexander told his friend. "And be careful."

Upstairs, Eliza tried to stomp her foot, to cry out, to do anything to warn Alexander to stay away. But she couldn't move. Graves retrieved the rifle and crouched on the other side of the bed. His two men hid as well, one behind the door, the other behind the drapes. She moaned in frustration. Alexander…stay downstairs!

Out in the barn, Hercules Mulligan nearly ripped the barn door off its hinges. He sized up the situation instantly. Laurens was dodging Burr's shovel, but he was backed into a corner. Mulligan crossed the stable floor in three strides and hauled Burr up by the back of the shirt. Surprised, he dropped the shovel, and Laurens took the opportunity to take a swing at him, catching him under the jaw. The older man sagged in Hercules's grip.

Laurens wiped blood off his chin. "Thank you," he told Mulligan. "We've got to see to Mr. Schuyler- he's over here."

The bigger man nodded, tossing Burr to the ground.

"Ce lieu est vide," Lafayette announced, holstering his pistol. "There is no one here," he told Hamilton.

"I don't like this," Hamilton said. "Go check on John and Hercules," he told his friend.

"What about you?" Lafayette asked him.

Hamilton raised his eyes to the ceiling. "I don't think we're alone," he replied quietly. "Go. I'll be all right."

It was a testament to their friendship that Lafayette didn't push it, instead taking off at a jog for the back door. Alexander climbed the stairs, knocking on Eliza's closed bedroom door. "Eliza?" he called out, knocking softly.

There was no answer. He raised his pistol and slowly opened the door, pushing it inward. His eyes surveyed the room and he gasped when he saw Eliza, bound and gagged and tied to the bedpost, screaming muffled warnings at him. The door came at him, and he was squeezed between it and the doorframe. He kept hold of his pistol and shoved hard with his foot. A man in a red British uniform stumbled back into the wall and Alexander slammed the door backwards, catching him in the nose. His pistol went clattering to the wood floor and Alexander scooped it up even as he drove his foot into the officer's temple with a vicious kick.

He dashed over to Eliza and removed the gag. "Eliza, are you-"

"Alexander-"

"She's fine," the lilt of Lieutenant Graves's voice cut in. Alexander froze as the British lieutenant stood up from him across the bed, a rifle and bayonet pointed in his direction. "You however, not as much." He nodded to the man who stepped out from behind the curtain. "Mr. Hamilton, if you would," he gestured with the bayonet to the other bedpost.

Alexander didn't move. Graves turned the point of his bayonet toward Eliza. "I'd hate to scar that beautiful face," he warned.

"Go ahead," Eliza spat at him, and Alexander's heart swelled with pride.

"I can see why you enjoy her company," Graves told Alexander. "However, I don't take my orders from her. If you would, please, Lieutenant Colonel." His junior officer took a step forward with a pistol of his own.

Alexander shot Graves a dirty look as he moved away from Eliza toward the lieutenant and dropped his guns. "Let her go," he told him. "She's no part of this."

"To the contrary," Graves objected. "I've been told that you confide your midnight exploits to her. That makes her an accessory to treason. I will, of course, have to execute you both."

"Hercules? John?" Lafayette burst into the stable to see his friends helping Phillip Schuyler unsteadily to his feet. "Everything all right in here?"

"Right as rain," Mulligan replied. "And inside?"

Lafayette shook his head. "Not so much," he replied. "Is Monsieur Schuyler all right?"

"Nasty bruise on the back of his head, thanks to that one," Mulligan nodded to an unconscious Aaron Burr on the floor. Lafayette's eyes narrowed. "But he'll live."

"Take him to camp, inform Washington of what has happened here tonight," Lafayette instructed. "That's an order."

"Pulling rank, really?" Laurens asked.

Lafayette didn't answer, turning and disappearing from the stable. "Just go, mon ami!" Something didn't feel right, and Lafayette wasn't leaving without Alexander.

Back upstairs, Alexander let Graves use the nightgown sash to tie his hands behind him around the second bedpost, then force him to his knees. "What did you steal tonight?" Graves questioned him. "I know we had couriers out this evening. You seemed particularly happy as you rode up this evening."

"I stole nothing," Alexander replied. "Just in a good mood to have a pint."

Graves socked him in the stomach and he doubled over as much as he could, wheezing. Eliza screamed. "Stay silent," Graves barked at her. His cohort stuck the barrel of his pistol under her chin and she looked helplessly at Alexander, tears falling down her face.

Alexander looked up. "I'm going to enjoy killing you," he told Graves.

"Bold words," Graves said. "Though I do not see how you plan to accomplish that, considering your state."

Alexander rose up on his knees as far as his bound hands would let him, breathing heavily. "You're not the only one who came here with friends tonight," he said in a deadly whisper.

The sound of a pistol being cocked punctuated the sentence. "Step. Away. From Monsieur Hamilton."

Grave looked up at the French accented voice as Lafayette stepped into the room. Alex chose that moment to make his move. He threw his legs to the side, knocking Graves off balance. The British Lieutenant stumbled and Lafayette fired, the bullet slamming into his chest and spinning him around. Then Lafayette turned his pistol to the man standing by Eliza.

"And you…step away from our favorite barmaid," Lafayette suggested. "A present!" he barked, louder, when the man didn't move. After a tense moment, the man stepped away and threw his hands in the air.

Lafayette kept his pistol trained on him as he untied Eliza. The moment she was free, Eliza was on the floor, her arms wrapped around Alexander Hamilton, sobbing into his uniform jacket. Alex dropped his chin to rest on her head, eyes closed in relief, murmuring something Lafayette couldn't make out. Lafayette hauled the British soldier up by the collar and prodded him downstairs with his gun. "We'll just leave you two alone," he said with a grin, pulling the door closed behind him.

Eliza kissed Alexander furiously. "You know," Alexander said after a moment. "This was not what I imagined, being alone with you in your bedroom." He chuckled softly. "For instance, I did picture myself holding you in my arms."

"Oh, oh!" Eliza realized, reaching behind him to untie his wrists. "I'm so sorry, I-"

"My dearest," Alex whispered in her ear. "I didn't necessarily mean you had to stop…"