Her new partner was older and shorter but he, too, had green skin, the dark green of olives. He smelled of fresh-cut grass, which was delightful. He smiled with a merry crease to his cheeks and introduced himself to her as Fergal son o’ Padraig son o’ Lorcan Hillman. That was all she heard before someone else snatched her into his arms and dropped a sweet kiss on her collarbone.
No, her arms, as Betony saw, as the young woman twirled her around. She was a redhead dressed in a green skirt and white blouse cut so low her bountiful breasts rose from it like proving dough. She at least wasn’t green. She was small, coming up to Betony’s chin, but she grinned up at her and flashed a dimple.
“Road rise to ye, lovely! Tis good to be alive!”
“It is,” Betony said and meant it.
The girl spun her again, her bosom bouncing along with her red hair. “Maura Dervla,” she said. “And you?”
“Not of the green way, lovely?”
Betony shook her head.
“Braeside, I expect. Sure, ye’ve the bountiful hips for it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What order are ye?”
Still puzzled, Betony turned the question about. “What order are you, Maura?”
“A colleen, darlin’, an’ I thought from your dress, perhaps you were the same.”
“Oh, no. My—the highlander gave me these clothes to wear for the dance.”