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And yet . . .

He glanced at his mother, who nodded.

God dammit. If he could remain angry with a man who’d done such a thing, Kieran was worse than Lina’s brother. But he still had questions.

“Why did you not tell me?”

At that, his father looked toward his mother.

“It was I who wished not to. Your father wished to tell you, but I could not bear the thought of you knowing you were kin to our greatest enemy. I worried you would think less of us as your family.”

“She worried to lose you. Even as an adult, her fear of you rejecting us as parents overrode all good sense.”

“Kenneth,” she scolded, but his father did not take back the words. It was something Kieran would have smiled about if it were any other circumstance.

“You told Niall.”

By now, his questions lacked the heat they had when Kieran had begun to question his parents.

“An error in judgment led by fear.”

“Never make decisions based on fear. You say it often,” he said to his father.

“Indeed. And your mother listens to me much less often.”

That time, he could not resist the slightest upturning of the corners of his mouth.

One glance. That was all it took, just one glance at his mother’s eyes. She begged, pleaded, to be forgiven. For him to love her as he’d always done. As she did him.

The eyes did not lie.

“Forgive me, Kieran. Please say you will forgive me.”

He opened his arms and she came to him. “I forgave you the moment I stepped into the hall,” he said softly. Just when his plaid had begun to dry, his mother wet it again. But he did not care. He had more questions, but for now, Kieran allowed himself to relish his mother’s embrace. When she let him go and his father stepped toward him, Kieran could not have been more surprised when he, too, wrapped his arms around him.

Kieran could remember each time his father had hugged him because the occasions were so rare. As he returned the gesture, Kieran closed his eyes and, for the second time since returning, chastised himself for a fool. He’d run away, when instead, he should have confronted his family.

When his father finally stepped back, Kieran’s knees nearly buckled at the sight. Not tears precisely, but his eyes were wet.

Impossible. His father did not cry.

Those remaining questions he had would have to wait.

“I should have come to you,” he said to them both. “I was angry and confused.” It was the only explanation he had to offer.

“As I would expect,” his mother said. “We are only glad you’ve given us the opportunity to explain.”

Maisie.

“I met a woman,” he said as a knock on the door was followed by his father’s call for admittance. Their meal had arrived. Once the round table in the corner of the solar chamber was prepared for them, Kieran resumed his tale, glad to lift a mug of ale to his lips.

“I went to Aberdale to learn more, and learned my father was a blacksmith who died in the battle.”

“Your mother passed in childbirth,” his father said, maybe to prove he had indeed investigated on Kieran’s behalf.

“Aye. But on the way, I stopped at the Red Stag Inn.”

“I know the place,” his father said. “Owned by a weasel of a man I dinnae care for.”