Free The Pirate Prince by Connie Mason Page A

carefully washing away the blood.
    “This one does not need stitching,” she said as she spread salve on the cut with her fingertips.
    “I told you,” Dariq said grumpily.
    She stared at him a moment, swallowed hard, then said, “Take off your shirt.”
    A slow smile lit Dariq’s dark features. “You want me to undress?”
    She sent him an exasperated look. “Just your shirt.”
    Still grinning, Dariq pulled off his shirt. Willow’s breath caught in her throat. Though she had seen him on a daily basis since being taken aboard the
Revenge
, never had she seen the ropes of muscles on his arms, or realized that his chest was so broad or dusted with black hair. The wet cloth hung limply from her hand as she stared at him.
    “Is something wrong?” Dariq asked blandly.
    The devil knew exactly what was wrong, but Willow refused to acknowledge how profoundly the sight of his bare chest affected her. Pretending no interest, she examined the numerous cuts on his torso and arms. Most had stopped bleeding, and none needed stitching. With forced detachment, she washed the cuts and spread salve on them. When she was done, she backed away.
    “Aren’t you going to finish?”
    His words startled her. “I thought I had.”
    Dariq stretched out his leg. “This one is more serious than the others.”
    Willow gasped and covered her mouth when she saw the blood on his trouser leg. “Perhaps you should ask Mustafa to take care of that one.”
    “It could fester before Mustafa can get to it. Come, my lady, I thought you weren’t like pampered Muslimwomen. Are you too squeamish to treat my wound?”
    “I am not squeamish,” Willow denied. She held out her hand. “Give me your knife.”
    Dariq stared at her hand, and then lifted his gaze to hers. The incredible sensuality of the man, the intimacy of the situation, made her a little reckless.
    “Are you afraid to arm me?” Willow challenged.
    “I fear no one,” Dariq said, carefully placing his knife in her hand.
    Willow closed her hand around the hilt and stared at the razor-sharp blade. If she planned to harm Dariq, now was the time to do it. He was wounded and at a disadvantage. But Dariq had trusted her enough to put a weapon in her hand, she found she wanted to earn that trust.
    She dropped to her knees, grasped his trouser leg and slit it from hip to hem. When she saw the seriousness of his wound, she sat back on her heels and dragged in a shaky breath. His flesh was lacerated from thigh to knee.
    “How could you still be walking with a wound like that?”
    He shrugged off her question. “Can you sew it?”
    “I suppose. I have always been good with thread and needle.” She rose. “I’ll need some fresh water from the pitcher.”
    She returned shortly with a basin of clean water and several cloths. The wound had stopped bleeding, which was a good sign. Once she cleaned the long gash, she realized that Dariq was right, the wound did indeed need stitching.
    “Where are the needle and thread?”
    “In the desk drawer. If you are going to be digging a needle into my flesh, perhaps you should pour me a glass of brandy first. You’ll find a bottle and glass in the cabinet.”
    Willow filled a glass with brandy and brought it to Dariq. He drank it in one gulp as she rummaged in the desk drawer for a needle and thread.
    “Pour a drop of brandy over the needle,” Dariq said.
    Willow did as he suggested, then threaded the needle. “Are you ready? I shall endeavor to make the stitches as neat as possible.”
    “I am not in the least worried. If I trusted you with a knife, I surely can trust you with a needle. Do your worst, beauty.”
    Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, Willow bent over Dariq’s leg and proceeded to sew the edges of his wound together with neat stitches. Dariq didn’t move, didn’t say a word; he just stared at her with a steady, unreadable gaze. By the time she’d finished, she was sweating profusely, her hand shaking with the release of