Ceinn-beithe was a headland jutting into the sea toward the isle of Mull. By legend, the point had once been thick with the birch trees for which it was named. There reputedly had once been a circle of stones here, and all had gathered to mark the rituals of passage.
But time had eroded both site and local memory. In these days, the point was devoid of trees and woad-painted priests, and but one of the great standing stones remained. ’Twas the largest, the eastern one, and it stood as a silent sentinel to the past of dimly recalled tales. Beyond, the trees still filled the space to the hills, a reminder that they had once grown thicker.
Duncan paced around the broch and considered his choices. The countess’s arrival could have been his worst nightmare come true. A foreign noble not only
