The wind howled around the tavern, making Victoria shiver at the sound. There was a chill in the air, and she cuddled her shawl tightly around her, as she silently left her bed.

There had been a crash on the porch outside. Probably one of the hanging terracotta plants had fallen and shattered on the boards outside. It wouldn't do for a customer to slice open a boot or a lady's soft shoe. A wealthy lady's shoe would not stand the sharp strength of terracotta and there would be blood to deal with.

She sighed, and blew on her cold hands. It seemed like the kitchen fire had blown out with the winds. Yet another task that she needed to perform before she could rest again.

Slipping cold feet into her work shoes, she smiled at the way her breath frosted the air in front of her. Very cold, she thought. If only it would snow. That would make Christmas almost perfect.

She slid back the bolt to open the door, and crept out into the cold night air. It was just after 11pm, by the clock. The whole pueblo seemed asleep, even the guards near the alcalde's office dozed at their post. She grabbed the broom from behind the door, and began to sweep the shards of pottery into a pile.

"Victoria," came a whisper from the shadows. She paused. Was it her name or a hush of the wind?

"Who's there?" She whispered back.

"Only a fox, in need of a place to rest for a few moments…"

She turned and went to where the sound had come from. She gasped with alarm when she saw him.

He was holding his upper arm tightly, but a tinge of red hinted horribly around the edges of his fingers. His face was as white as snow, and his eyes had lost a lot of the cheeky gleam. Although there he was smiling slightly, and a twinkle still remained.

She glanced around with fear, as she drew him inside.

"The soldiers are all asleep. They were unaware of their lucky shot a few hours ago," Zorro whispered in the dark tavern.

"A few hours ago? How is it you are still alive?"

Zorro smiled and followed her into the kitchen.

"Sit," she ordered, pointing to a kitchen chair near the fireplace. "I'll soon have this fire going."

All thought of the cold had vanished. She concentrated on sorting kindling and more small sticks for the hearth, instead of the terror of his wounds.

"It's small and annoying more than anything, mi preciosa. A bit of blood, and not much of that."

"I will have a look. There is a needle and thread here somewhere."

"Victoria," Zorro said firmly. She turned towards him. "A little less fuss…please."

"I love you. This is for my peace of mind. If you didn't want my help, you wouldn't have come here."

Zorro sighed, and lowered his hand reluctantly. Blood still oozed from the shoulder wound, but it wasn't gushing or pouring out, not like she had imagined.

"It needs stitching," she murmured.

"The needle needs to be heated over a candle," Zorro cautioned her.

"Why?"

"A friend thinks it may help prevent inflammation…" He shrugged slightly, wincing as torn muscles groaned with pain.

"And the thread?"

"I don't know everything."

She smiled a little at the annoyance in his tone. The real man was making an appearance, if only slightly.

"I'll get you a hot lemon drink with honey. If you have caught a chill it will soon see you warmed through." She went towards some brandy first, and glanced at Zorro.

"And the brandy will ease the pain," Zorro answered her challenge crossly. "And make me sleepy, and susceptible to inducements…" He sighed.

"Susceptible to inducements?" She frowned. She'd have to ask Diego what that meant. That one seemed to go straight over her head.

"I mean," Zorro said, aware of her frown. "I mean, I am not staying here to be nursed. I won't let you put yourself in danger that way."

"It should be my choice, not just yours," she grumbled, as she fixed the drink.

She handed the mug to him with a smile. When he needed both hands to steady the drink, she frowned again.

"You must be frozen! What was I thinking? You need a blanket, and some fresh clothes…" She darted to the side, where she stored the spare blankets.

"A blanket will do nicely, Victoria. Clothes will not…"

"You must admit, it was worth a try. Perhaps if the shirt is drenched through with the earlier storm, it would be best to remove it. Get dry and I will dry the shirt by the fire."

He thought for a moment, and then proceeded to unbutton the shirt. She drew in her breath, and found her eyes drawn to the muscles on his bare chest as it was slowly revealed. Victoria handed him the warm blanket, which he settled on the top of his uninjured shoulder and across most of his chest.

"I think I will keep a hand on my shirt. If you don't mind, senorita," he said with a small smile. "I am not the only one with cunning in this room."

She nodded thoughtfully, not quite catching the words. Her hands reached out almost instinctively to touch the scars that ran across the right side of his chest. His gloved hands caught hers quickly, and held them.

"How badly were you hurt? Over the years you have collected quite a few nasty wounds," she breathed.

"I recovered."

"There's even one on your forearm, it must have been a very deep gash. Who has helped you?"

She glanced up into his eyes. They were so full of love, so warm and gentle. She was suddenly insecure and slightly angry.

"Are you married? Was it your wife who has helped you all these years?"

"Victoria!" The look of love turned to a steely look of concern. "Do you think I have lied to you all these years? That my promises were all lies?"

"Someone was helping you all these years."

Zorro let go of her hands abruptly, and frowned. "You really think there could be someone else? That my words mean nothing?" He placed the mug of hot drink on the bench next to him and prepared to stand.

"I'm sorry. Please, please, I really am sorry," Victoria said quickly. "I didn't mean to start a fight."

Zorro sighed, and relaxed again. He really didn't want to brave the freezing winds again for a little while. Victoria was concerned for him, and he had made the mistake of removing his shirt in front of her. He'd forgotten about half of the silver scars that crisscrossed his torso. She had never seen them.

"I'm sorry. I should have thought. I will put my shirt back on, and we can forget the scars."

She stared at him worriedly, as he shrugged the slightly warmed shirt back over his shoulders, hesitating when it came to the wounded shoulder, his face paling as pain hit him once again. She stopped him with a hand.

"No, I still have to stitch the shoulder. Just leave me time to help you. Drink some more of the lemon drink while I get the needle and thread ready. Heat the needle over a candle, you say?"

"Just for a few moments," Zorro said softly.

He watched her as she bustled around, concentrating on the task at hand. "You did this with your brothers from time to time."

It was a statement, not a question. She ignored the possible implications of that. "And my father…"

Zorro stared at her as she threaded the needle carefully, after heating it. "I am sorry about your father. What happened to him was terrible. The dangers and risks he took to try and keep you safe here in the pueblo. Dying in battle was noble, but such a great loss for you. Your mother…"

"It was a long time ago. Life goes on. I have many friends who care for me deeply. I still have a family of sorts."

"You will always have me."

She smiled, approaching him slowly and reluctantly.

"This is going to hurt. I am so sorry."

"It's my own fault anyway, senorita. I dared to venture to your door. I deserve whatever I receive."

She laughed. "Don't be silly, Zorro. You needed help, you came to me. I will always help you."

"Will you forgive me for the mask?"

She stared into his face closely. "I have told you I will always forgive you. Always. Whoever you are, you can be certain of my love. I will always love you."

"I hope so. I will always love you. I am brave, senorita, and it will take more than a needle and thread to truly hurt me anyway."

She dragged a chair over so she could sit next to her hero, and slowly wiped down the shoulder, cleaning it of dry and damp blood. He winced slightly, and grinned at her, as she bit her bottom lip to stop it trembling.

"I do have a helper…" He said and winced again. "It's a young boy. An apprentice of sorts."

"Your son, perhaps?" Maybe he was a widower, she thought. A widower wasn't bad…

"An apprentice," he repeated firmly. "I have no son of my own."

A questioning look came to her eyes and he softened. "And no daughter either," he assured her, squeezing her hand with his left hand, as she approached his injured shoulder.